Jeeves and the Opera Ghost
by PeekabooFang
Summary: Foppish dandy Raoul seeks out his friend from Britain, the fellow foppish dandy Bertie Wooster, to counsel him on what to do about the Phantom. Well, actually, Raoul seeks out Bertie's inimitable valet, Jeeves. Bit of fun, what? Leroux, Wodehouse
1. To Paris!

***Read First:* **Seeing that the popular consensus is that "Raoul is a Fop," I was reminded of my very favorite literary fop, P.G. Wodehouse's ingenious creation Bertram "Bertie" Wilbeforce Wooster from the Jeeves stories. And thus, this story was born. I'd much prefer if you would kindly turn a blind eye to any discrepancies in the timeline continuity, since the Jeeves stories exist primarily in the 1920s, while _Phantom _is rooted sometime in the 1880s. Maybe meet halfway, and imagine this takes place in the early 1900s, or something? Much obliged. I'm going mostly by Leroux, with maybe a little of ALW's stage show thrown in if the mood so strikes me. And since Wodehouse's stories and the TV series starring Fry & Laurie are practically inseparable in my mind, I feel little need to make that distinction.

Oh, by the way, I do not own any of the following: the rights to P.G. Wodehouse's work, Gaston Leroux and ALW's Phantom, or any such lah-de-dah.

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The day, as Jeeves would put it, was clement, from its sunny top to its grassy bottom. The sky was a blue of the brightest, most vivid shade, and the birds sang a rousing chorus upon the twigs. The slightest of breezes stirred the leaves, carrying the scent of honeysuckle into my flat (that is, if that's the flower I want—I should have asked Jeeves if said plant is even in London before I supplied the mental image). In other words, the morning was absolutely dripping with blooming atmosphere. My memory might be clouded, but I'm not absolutely sure little cherubic children weren't partaking in pastoral dances in the grassy knoll just outside my flat as I leaned out the window, taking it all in.

Yet if one of those happy shrieking imps, bouncing around caked in dirt and smudged stockings, had happened to glance northward into my direction, a shade might have been cast over his mirth at the comparatively gloomy countenance Mr. Bertram W. Wooster wore that sunny morn.

After all, the morning might have looked promising from an objective perspective, but that's where the objective perspective always makes its bloomer: it's never very _subjective, _is it? Can't help it, I suppose. Part of its nature to turn a blind eye to that side of things.

The answer behind my stormy brow and stony eye was not far in seeking.

I don't know how well up you are in the Wooster archives, but if you've delved in at all, you'll quickly discover three important things about Yours T. One, I'm absolutely helpless, like a wailing babe left to fend for itself amongst ravenous, unkindly wolves in the woods, without Jeeves, that kingliest of all valets. Second, I am forever at the mercy of demanding aunts, alternating primarily between Aunt Dahlia, the good and deserving aunt who nevertheless doesn't shrink away from placing her beloved nephew right square in the middle of a crosshair in a nasty sitch, particularly when it comes to pinching cow creamers or giving away grammar awards at Market Snodsbury; and Aunt Agatha, half Vampire Bat and half War Banshee, who drinks the blood of unproductive persons on the eve of every full moon. Third, while I'm still shy fifteen or twenty years from the age people start generally defining a confirmed bachelor, many of my acquaintances have flirted with labeling me that anyhow, since much of my adult life thus far has consisted of racking my brains—or, more appropriately, Jeeves's brains—in coming up with ways to extricate myself from joining in that most eternal of sacred ties, matrimony.

And on the day I just now described, I was hounded on all sides by two of these three. The first one was giving me no grief, I'm happy to relate. Jeeves remained in my employ, and in that particular respect, all was right on God's Green Earth, or however that wheeze goes. But the other two were grieving me to the utmost.

Talking of Jeeves, just as I was heaving a regretful sigh on my plight, he shimmered in with the usual mid-morning tea, always to be counted upon to cheer the young master somewhat, if not entirely, at least on this given day.

"What-ho, Jeeves," I said, but without my usual vigor.

"Feeling more rested, sir?" He asked with the proper feudal concern. My limited faculties are not the most adept in handling anything akin to a heavy burden, and I had let Jeeves know upon awakening that mine had been a fitful night, of tossing and turning to a frightful degree.

I gave a bitter sort of laugh. "Physically, Jeeves, but the soul is filled with something-something. Would 'sadness' do, do you think?"

" 'Sorrow" might be a bit more poignant, considering the circumstances, sir."

"Right-ho."

"'This night I'll waste in sorrow, for my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.'"

"Now _that's _a catchy one, Jeeves, and gets across just what I want. Not one of yours, by any chance?"

"No, sir, it was penned by the bard himself, William Shakespeare."

"Ah."

"From his _Venus and Adonis, _sir. Perhaps a bit romantic in context, but by itself the line does indeed seem to encapsulate your current woeful and watchful state, if you do not mind my taking the liberty in saying so, sir."

"Not at all, Jeeves, not at all." I let another of my sorrowful sighs fill the room. "Quite frankly, my heart's not the only one sick to death of the situation."

"Understandable, sir."

"I mean, confound it, Jeeves, you know!" I shifted, visibly perturbed as I thought about it all again. "I mean, really! It's all a bit thick, isn't it? First Aunt Agatha becomes enamored of the idea that Madeline Bassett would make perfect wifely material for one Bertram Wooster, and knocks herself out trying to make me see the light of day. Well, that's fine, as M. Bassett had, I thought, practically tied the knot already with that beastly Spode fellow, so I had no real fear of Aunt Agatha's plans coming to any fruition. 'Let her have her fun,' I said to myself in that thoughtless, lark-like way I shudder to think back on now. But then that gorilla in human form Spode had to go out on one of his tirades right in front of the Bassett beazel, condemning all petunias as useless weeds that should be stripped from the earth to give way to planting more 'useful' stock like potatoes and yams. Well, at the thought of every pretty petunia in the land falling sway to the gardener's shears, the Bassett gave a yelp not unlike that which precedes the heroine's swoon at the end of every second act in every blasted musical revue there is, and gave Spode the push. And you know what _that _means."

We exchanged meaningful looks. Our meaningful looks usually went one way: I with my eyes popped open a fraction wider than usual, lips drawn into a humorless smirk; and Jeeves, never one prone to any over-exertion of his facial muscles, raising his eyebrows discreetly and puckering his mouth slightly as if sour lemon dwelt within.

Perhaps I should explain a bit, since Jeeves and I seldom openly discuss what that _that _signifies. Wouldn't be fitting or chivalrous. We Woosters are known for being the _preuxest _of _preux chevaliers, _and it would seem almost like taking a girl's name lightly for Jeeves and I to roundly chew the fat on such a grisly subject.

The fact of the matter is, un-_preux _as it may sound, there were few females I was more allergic to than this same Madeline Bassett. Now, if someone happened to know her only by her looks, this person would undoubtedly think me next-door to loony for this opinion, as she's certainly an eyeful in a lissome, golden-haired, saucer-eyed sort of way. But just try having some normal conversation with her, and you'll find it quickly devolves into squashy baby-talk about how daisies are parasols for the faerie ladies, and that clouds are but pillows for an angel's weary head. Soppy is the word I want. Absolutely drippy. And while that sort of sickly-sweet behavior gives me a distinctly queasy feeling like drinking tea with expired cream in it, I'm constantly threatened with the prospect of one day strapping myself to her for better or for worse. And that's without Aunt Agatha's prompting.

You see, once upon a time, I took up with Madeline the cause of my friend Gussie, who was just the sort of fish-faced fathead who'd fall for a drip like her. And Madeline, the silly twit, interpreted it as a proposal from _me. _She refused me then for Gussie, then later on for Spode, but always with the caviar—no, that's not the bally word…what does Jeeves always say?…ah, yes—with the _caveat _that when her current gentleman makes the proverbial ass out of himself, I'm the next in line for the chopping block.

And now she had broken off her engagement with Spode, a man of about eight feet ten inches who gads about hollering in peoples' faces and crushing civilizations beneath his heels. She then quite promptly wired me from Totleigh Towers, from whence she hails, letting me know that with my Aunt Agatha's hearty approval, we could renew our engagement. She also added that although she'd most likely never love me with the fervor of a million exploding stars, she'd try her best to make me happy, or some such drivel.

Now, what alternative did Bertram have at this juncture? One cannot simply break off an engagement with a girl counting on you to follow through. The Code of the Woosters dictates that at all costs a girl's feelings _must not_ be hurt.

"What's to be done, Jeeves?" I appealed to him. I had received the wire last night, and Jeeves assured me he'd contemplate the matter and get back to me bright and early. That pledge did much to lighten my mood, though nothing could lighten it completely. No, not whilst the prospect of forever making kissy faces at Madeline over the breakfast table for the rest of my life hung over my head like The Sword of Damocles, if that's the fellow whose sword I'm thinking of.

Jeeves straightened his tall form, head bulging at the back as it always did (evidence of the formidable brain that dome housed), and said, "I think we might have a reasonable solution at hand, sir."

Jolly cove, Jeeves. There has seldom been a time while he's been with me that he hasn't come to his master's rescue when called upon, usually with an absolutely corking idea to get said master out of the soup. That is, so long as I don't go off my head and wear purple socks or alpine hats with feathers in them. My aunts assure me that I'm a blithering fool without Jeeves, and so far, I'm in no position to disagree with them.

"Well done, Jeeves! Once again, you never fail to amaze me! Other great thinkers of our generation shrivel away into nothing at the very sight of your proud, fish-fed visage. What's the sketch?"

"It occurred to me, sir, that perhaps a visit abroad, prompt and without notice to either Miss Bassett or your aunt Mrs. Gregson, might hinder Miss Bassett's perception of you as a responsible future mate."

Though my faith in Jeeves is usually unflappable, I'll admit I did deflate a bit at this pronouncement. "High-tailing it, you mean? I don't know, Jeeves. Miss Bassett is surprisingly determined and pigheaded for a girl who thinks sunbeams are stairways to pixieland. She might not be so easily deterred."

"True, sir. But if it were a prolonged absence of perhaps several months, not only would the scales perhaps fall from her eyes, but in the interim she might be given reason to reflect and mend relations between herself and Lord Sidcup."

"Spode, Jeeves, Spode! I refuse to hear that Yeti referred to as Lord Anything."

"Very good, sir. In the meantime, a prolonged absence might even make Mrs. Gregson subject to forgetting any alleged wrongdoing on your part."

I did some pursing of my own lips. "Pink so far, Jeeves. Except for one thing. You keep gumming on about taking a 'prolonged absence,' but how would we go about prolonging? I can't think of anything I'm keen to take up for 'several months' abroad, much less a couple weeks, really."

A sage smile flitted across his lips—or, rather, one corner of his mouth slinked upward about a quarter of an inch, since that's the limit to Jeeves's smile—as he gave one of his signature soft coughs. "Perhaps this missive will supply us with our answer, sir." And here the man revealed a silver tray with a letter atop it. Funny thing about old Jeeves. One can never quite tell from where and whence he enters a room or keeps various items about him, but specter like, all proper things appear at the proper time.

"Great Scott!" I called out as I espied the seal on the envelope. "It's from Raoul de Chagny!"

"I took the liberty of noticing that, sir."

"Good ol' Raoul!"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll be blown," I muttered as I tore open the envelope and prepared to digest its contents. I really was blown, too. Odd sort, old Raoul. One of those dreamy, romantic types. Not quite as dangerously far gone as Madeline, but still, definitely of the brooding, contemplative temperament. He was actually some sort of nobility in his native France—a vicomte, viscount, or both. I was never too clear on it, really, and he wasn't the type to chat it up. When he was about fourteen his older brother Philippe, who was also his guardian, sent him away to boarding school in England, apparently in order to "forget a girl." Now, getting sent away to "forget a girl" at age fourteen lends one a very romantic edge, and we were all quite curious about him, since as fate would have it I was a fellow school chum of his.

He was a little shy at first, since if he has one fault outside of that dashed reverie he's forever sinking into, it's being about as bashful as a ewe lamb. But he soon proved to be the most amiable of chaps once you got to know him, and once his English accent improved and you could understand what he was bally well saying. At first I was wary that his romantic nature would make him the French equivalent of my friend Richard "Bingo" Little. Bingo is all right in small doses, but two of him would go a long way to driving one absolutely batty. Bingo, when all is said and done, has a kind face, but also has the unfortunate tendency to fall passionately, madly in love with every other girl he sees, most usually in Spring.

However, Raoul proved himself a one-girlie sort of fellow, and confided in me how lost he was on that particular girl he was sent away for. Apparently she was in training as a great opera singer, and was quite beautiful, to boot. Swedish girl, by the name of Christine, as I recall.

The last time I enjoyed Raoul's company had been sometime about a year ago, when he came round to my flat during a brief stop on a world tour he was taking aboard a naval ship he was training on, of all things. There's another thing that differentiates him from my usual set. He not only landed a cushiony position on board the _Borda_—thanks in part to his connections, I should imagine—but he managed to do so without sinking the ship or driving the crew to abandon him on an inhospitable island somewhere in the South Pacific, which would have occurred to any other member of the Drones club of which I'm a member.

We'd had a warm chat when he came to visit, and he was looking forward to the rest of his tour in that quiet sort of way he has. He was quite in awe of Jeeves, of course, and let me warmly know that a man with my lack of brains was lucky indeed to have someone like that looking after me. I nodded agreeably and then he was off.

Yet here he was, judging by the return address on the envelope, back in France already!

The letter was a doozy:

_Bertie, old friend,_

_I have found her again. My angel, Christine Daae. I am currently on furlough from my ship, and must return within a month—but I can't do it, Bertie, I can't! I found her singing in the Paris Opera House, and oh, Bertie! Her voice! I soar with each note that divine voice sings!—_the old boy's a bit of a verbose prune—_But alas, Bertie, a mysterious darkness falls over our new-found love._

_It is not my brother's disapproval of which I speak. I am already prepared to break with him if need be, and that has ceased to weigh on me, dearly as I love Philippe. No, the current drama I find myself immersed in appears almost unearthly. I have a rival, but he's no mere man, though whether he be devil, angel, or monster, I cannot tell. _

_Bertie, I turn to you now in a time of deep distress. You are the dearest friend I have in England—_give credit where credit is due, he's also a very affectionate scout—_and I know I can count on your assistance. Please come, Bertie. You are my only hope in gaining the hand of the woman I worship beyond all reason._

_Your dearest friend for life,_

_Raoul de Chagny_

_P.S. Do bring your man Jeeves with you. Dashed clever soul._

"Well, I really and truly am blown," I reiterated dumbly. "Raoul's found that girl again! That Christine…Christine…" I scanned the page looking for that dashed last name of hers that looked a devil to pronounce.

Jeeves filled it in for me. "Christine Daae, sir?"

I blinked at him, close to agog. "Well, how do you know that, Jeeves?"

"You mentioned once that Mr. de Chagny was besotted with a Swedish opera singer by the christian name of Christine, sir. I happened to glance upon a glowing review of a young Swedish singer by that name in the evening papers a few weeks back, praising her performance as Margarita in _Faust_ at the Paris Opera's recent gala performance. I surmised she could be the very young lady of whom Mr. de Chagny harbours that great fondness, though I admit it was perhaps a bit far-fetched for me to assume so at the time."

"She dished it out all right, then? Her performance, I mean? Fruity and all that?"

"She was apparently something close to a revelation, sir."

"Well, that's good for merry old Raoul, then," I decided. "Hate for him to fall for a loud old hog like that Cora Whatsit Tuppy Glossup was all for a few years back. Remember that screeching relic, Jeeves?"

"I do recall, sir."

"Scary prospect, that Cora. I'm glad Tuppy wised up—thanks to your guiding hand, Jeeves—and went scuttling back to my cousin Angela."

"A most fortunate outcome, sir."

"Bad business, these opera singers mostly, wouldn't you say, Jeeves?"

"Not necessarily, sir," he countered. "Miss Daae is apparently a very comely and charming figure on the stage."

I shrugged. "Well, I suppose she'd have to be to keep Raoul in thrall so long. Well, anyways, apparently not everything is as full of daisies and sunshine as we'd like for the new young couple, Jeeves. They appear to have caught a rather mysterious snag in the proceedings."

"Yes, sir."

I frowned a touch at the man's airy tone. "What mean you, 'yes, sir?' You sound as if you already knew that."

"I assumed as much, sir. In fact, that is why I proposed a prolonged absence abroad, anticipating Mr. de Chagny in need of our assistance."

I was back to blinking and agogging. He couldn't have read my letter before I had. For one thing, the seal was unbroken when he gave it to me, and for another, that's just not the sort of thing Jeeves goes in for. He has his subtle ways, but peeping at the master's correspondence is most certainly not one of them. I was beginning to suspect telepathy.

"And how, pray tell, did you anticipate all this? Speak, Jeeves, you frighten me with your strange ways."

Another of his soft coughs preceded his response. "An additional article I chanced reading last evening connected Mr. de Chagny with Miss Daae, and not without implications of a third party involved. Superstitious stagehands believe this party to be the infamous Paris 'Opera Ghost.'"

"Eh?"

"The Phantom of the Opera, as he's otherwise known. Reports from various members of the Opera Populaire claim him as a spectral figure in human form with a hideous countenance, making demands on the managers for box seats, a salary, and, currently, the furthering of Miss Daae's operatic career. When I noticed the de Chagny family seal upon the envelope, I thought it not very far-fetched at all that the letter might be the young viscount asking for assistance."

I relaxed a bit, hearing this altogether human explanation, though it did give me pause to find out about this Phantom fellow. "Psh. Rubbish, Jeeves."

"Sir?"

"This Phantom business. Sounds like a prank Claude and Eustace once played on their housekeeper when they were little, making strange, strangled noises in the night to convince the poor woman the place was haunted. They started whispering into the vents, warning her that if she didn't give them leave to slomp around the place in muddy galoshes, the ghost would give her what-for. Think something similar's afoot, Jeeves?"

"I doubt if your cousins are behind the current happenings, sir."

"No, no, Jeeves. That someone's making an absolute monkey out of the managers at the Paris Opera."

"The reports are strange indeed, sir, but I agree that most likely some entirely human element is at hand."

"Hm," I replied sagely. I was lost in thought for a moment. But, considering the depths of my thoughts, that never takes very long. "There it is then," I proclaimed brightly when I emerged. "I don't fancy plopping myself indefinitely into a haunted opera house of all places, but Paris is a sunny berg with romance lacing the air and whatnot. Could be a gas. Plus, Bertram Wooster is never one to let down a friend in times of need, is he? And I am curious to meet this lass Raoul's been wild about since he was but a mere stripling, this Christine Day—Dyer—Dahee—oh, blast it, Jeeves, how do you pronounce that damned name?"

"Die-ay, I believe, is the correct enunciation, sir."

"Die-ay, eh? That's what you get from D-A-A-E with that little dash on top of the last letter?"

"An accent, sir."

"Well, of course you'd say it in an accent, but it's still a rummy little symbol to attach willy-nilly to the last letter of a word. Why not just spell the cursed name how it sounds, Jeeves?"

"The Swedish alphabet works in mysterious ways, sir."

"Undoubtedly. Still, confounded name or no, I guess there's no harm in meeting the girl, is there?"

"No harm as far as I can tell, sir. Again, may I remind you a sojourn to Paris would also be prudent in escaping the clutches of Miss Bassett and Mrs. Gregson, sir?"

"Well, that tears it. We are definitely going. Go forth and buy first class tickets for the earliest departure to Paris you can find, Jeeves! And you'll be more than willing to counsel young Raoul once we reach Paris's gleaming shore?"

"If I can, sir."

"Swimming!"

"Indeed, sir."


	2. The Couple and The Scheme

Paris has the reputation for bathing one in romantic atmosphere with abundance, and if you read the press releases, you'll most likely expect to be confronted right away with charming chippies batting heavy lashes at you from underneath nifty berets, while jazzy accordion music seals the deal. Kissing a mademoiselle underneath the Eiffel Tower at midnight, don't you know. Bally cheery and filling one with the literal _joie de vivre _before even settling in.

That may be the case for those without the handle of Wooster, but for those who do bear that distinct affliction, the first impressions of Paris consist of squat men muttering what's undoubtedly their native versions of "blimey" and "look at the bloomin' fancy guv'nor" under their breath as they haul your luggage into the taxi, and a nervous, pale Raoul de Chagny pacing back and forth in wait for you.

"Ahoy there, old scream!" I called out cheerily, spotting the chappie before he became aware of my presence in his midst.

"Bertie!" He called out as if I were the Second Coming, which those in the know believe to be a roundly false representation of me.

We shook hearty hands as Jeeves, in his usual invisible way, saw to the luggage and the greedy hand of the attendant aching for a _cadeau_. I looked Raoul up-and-down, and said the only reasonable thing a man who hasn't seen a good friend for nearly a year can say:

"Good Lord, man, look at the soup strainer on your philtrum!"

I spoke of course of that faint patch of gold stuff that constituted a moustache on his person. He was a good-looking chap, but definitely of the delicate, saintish variety, the rosy-cheeked lad who fades away from consumption before paying off his debts in a staged melodrama. "Could use a few more helpings of steak-and-kidney pie underneath that tiny thing of a belly," was my Aunt Dahlia's stout assessment when she met him during a trip we once took to Brinkley Manor—Aunt Dahlia being the sort to emit battle cries during fox-hunting season, galloping upon her steed, then helping herself to the delectable output of her sterling chef Anatole. Raoul, by contrast, is most certainly not the burly, let's-rassle-up-some-dead-foxes-with-our-bare-hands type you usually associate with facial hair.

Still, surprisingly, this thin, twitchy piece suited the whelp well enough. I wondered what Jeeves would make of…I played with my own upper-lip as Raoul absently touched his with one gloved hand. "Oh, ah, yes, I grew it once I got off the _Borda. _Philippe's suggestion, don't you know."

"No, I didn't know, until now. Natty of him to make the suggestsh. Rather gives you a sort of what-have-you look."

For all that his face had held throughout a taut, distraught look, obviously meditating on all his love-worn woes, a tentative smile crossed his mug here, eyes blue and boyish with gee-golly. "Oh, I say, really? Well, that's pat of you to say, isn't it? Thanks, old man." And the good soul shook my hand anew.

Suddenly remembering the gravity sinking his soul into sobriety, he whispered hurriedly (a new trait of his, I was soon to find out, this hurried whispering) that the very best of all possible actions we could take would be scurrying henceforth into the cab. Then with a dramatic sharp turn of the bod he himself climbed into the waiting taxi. The polite cove actually tipped his hat respectfully at Jeeves, an action which, if I'm not mistaken, inspired a rather charmed and amused gleam to pop into Jeeves's eyes.

"I am so very pleased you were able to accompany Mr. Wooster, Jeeves."

"It was my distinct pleasure, Monsieur Viscount."

Raoul turned hurriedly to me, as I shuffled over a large satchel to squeeze in next to the blighter. Not the most efficient of luggage-arrangers, these French taxi drivers.

"Bertie," Raoul said anxiously.

"Present!"

"After you drop off the luggage, I'd like you to come with me to meet her."

"Eh? Who?" I'll have to reconnoitre with Jeeves, but it might be I should have said 'whom'.

"Christine, you poor lug!"

"Oh, ah!"

The taxi lurched into the crowded street, and it took all the ingenuity of the Woosters' hereditary quick reflexes to keep my hat rooted firmly upon said Wooster bean. Certainly are exuberant drivers, these French, as well.

Raoul, probably used to the jerky jolting being rather Frenchish himself, ignored the driving and stared glassily ahead. "Oh, Bertie, you don't know half of what I've been through already for that woman." He turned quickly—another new sudden habit of his, this turning quickly after zoning out in blissful delirium—in the direction of Jeeves, and once again utilized that hushed, deferential tone to ask, "Will you come with us to meet her, too, Jeeves?"

"If the invitation extends to me, sir."

"Oh, it does, it does, indeed. She's most anxious to meet both of you."

This surprised me. If I were a rising opera singer and someone described someone like me to me, I doubt I'd be too anxious to give me the once-over. Still, I remained mum on the subject and focused instead solely on the doxy. "Oh, good. Where are we to meet the apple of your eye? Some swanky restaurant where snails and truffles are like mother's milk to the populace?"

"No. At the opera. She refuses to meet me anywhere else."

Jeeves and I exchanged mystified glances—which, again, for Jeeves constituted only that discreet eyebrow raising. "Why not anywhere else?" I inquired.

"I'll…I'll explain all that later, after you've met her."

"Bit of a handicap on the old courtship, I should think, being confined to one place?"

"It's rather a pill."

I cleared the old throat and steeled the nerve to get down to the more ludicrous side of business. In my most tactful, delicate tones, I inquired, "I say, Chagny old boy, this doesn't have anything to do with that Opera Ghost nonsense, does it?"

Really, one would think, judging how like a twig that neck looked, that it wouldn't snap if Raoul continued making such rapid turns on it. "You…you've heard of the Opera Ghost?" He asked, all ga-ga eyes and twitching 'stache.

"Jeeves here read about the chum in one of those gossip columns making the rounds."

A sizable lump appeared and then disappeared as swallowed in that twig-like instrument. "Yes, well, I'll explain that later, as well. That is, if I can. Christine knows far more than she's told me."

"Well, if you don't mind my saying so, old bird," I counseled, "She does seem to be a girl shroud in mystery, what?"

"You've no idea," he said grimly.

I found out soon enough.

I can't say it was love at first sight when the Paris Opera House crossed my line of sight. Ghastly huge structure, dripping with gargoyles, class, and undoubtedly high-flown tragedy. I shivered in fear and l. at the prospect of spending the majority of my hideout in France chained to this mausoleum of broken dreams.

Jeeves, however, raised the brim of his trusty bowler hat at the sight—ostensibly (if that's the word I want) to get a better view of the eyesore, but really it was probably the blighter saluting the place. I doubt Jeeves would ever get down on one knee and sing out a love song to demonstrate his feeling, but it was clear to me the man was infatuated with the beastly domain. "A testament to architectural ingenuity," were the bally words he used later.

We had little time to let the structure sink in, thankfully, for Raoul, bless him, dragged me by the arm into the place, Jeeves following sylph-like behind us, eyes probably still all a-dew just beneath that hat.

Raoul moved along so speedily that the insides of the place passed me by just as quickly as the outsides, but I was able to comprehend bits and pieces of deep red rugs, sweating stagehands, huge wooden flats, and brightly painted girls dressed in tutus fluttering by in a storm of giggles and whoops. Now I do wish Raoul had slowed down a touch at _this_ juncture; after all, why come to a foreign country if one can't enjoy the view in all its fluttering-eyed, flashing-smile glory?

We were finally deposited in front of a dressing room down a long, empty passage, and led inside to meet Miss Daae by her maid. The maid was a small, plumpish woman, who stared at us aghast as if we were there with the sole goal in mind of slomping about the place wearing muddy galoshes.

"Christine," Raoul said vibrating with emotion, "Meet Bertie Wooster and his valet Jeeves."

She was not what I expected. Oh, she was pretty as advertised. But knowing she was Swedish, I hadn't expected her to be as petite as she was—my mental picture of Swedish girls was that they were six feet by an inch, wheeling about big blocks of cheese 'round the rustic mountain terrain, all the while dressed in milkmaid garb, their golden hair coiled in croissant fashion about their ears. And as she was an opera singer, I expected her a bit meatier and less frail looking, bursting forth in battle songs detailing the exploits of her Viking ancestry (if I'm correct in naming Sweden the place the Vikings originally called Home Sweet Home). You know, the type of gal who turns many a proud -j into an irrational -y sound. But there she was, small and winsome, a slight blush upon her pale cheek, only a polite, mewling greeting coming out of her pretty chompers.

But really, the biggest shock to me about Christine Daae was how very much she resembled her betrothed.

Though her build might not have met my idealized image of a Swedish girl, the coloring certainly matched, and like Raoul, she had a goodish golden mane, with blue eyes of the limpid variety. And like her betrothed, she wore the same sort of dreamy, melancholy air about her that made both of them come across as visiting creatures from outerspace more than anything else.

Another start I had was the ridiculous mirror set in back of her, that, if I'm not mistaken, took up the whole bally wall. Studying the reflection confirmed the position I've always maintained that we Woosters run to a bit of height, and when we haven't inherited the beaky nose and shark-like eyes of our Aunt Agathas, we instead inherit mugs like Punch from Punch and Judy, if that's truly the puppet I have in mind.

Recovering from my shock and my start, I turned on the old charm in greeting Raoul's minx.

"What-ho, Miss Daae!" I greeted her cheerfully, touching the brim of my h. with all due manly respect.

One of those sad smiles you sometimes catch on such weary damsels flitted wanly across her equally wan face, and then she and Raoul got down to business. I was taken aback again by the mutual look of concern etched on their pretty faces, and I do recall wondering maybe if they were distant cousins they didn't know about.

"Monsieur Wooster," said the girl in a surprisingly decipherable accent—later Jeeves speculated that her career singing in pretty much whatever language thrown her way probably attributed to her clear diction. But anyways, "Monsieur Wooster" is how she started, and I shan't dare cut her off there-"Monsieur Wooster, I must confess I was apprehensive at first when Raoul told me you and your man were coming to our aid. But he said something about how Monsieur Jeeves was something of a…oh, how did you put it, bel ami…a mastermind of the first order?"

"Quite right, dear," the complacent Raoul confirmed, "That's just how I put it, peach."

Maybe a lesser man might have bristled and uttered a censuring "harrumph" at being passed so eagerly over for his valet, but I am not one to stand in the way of progress, and when it comes to the brains of any given operation, I bow to the superior johnnie.

This particular superior johnnie—Jeeves, that is, if you follow my meaning—nodded a grave head in the direction of the damozel. "Most kind, mademoiselle, monsieur. I always endeavor to give satisfaction."

"Absolutely he does!" I chipped in cheerfully. I may not contribute much in the way of matters requiring heavy thinking, but I'm the first one calls upon to give a rousing chorus to encourage the troops. "He's saved a number of my pals' necks throughout the years. There was this time out at my Aunt Agatha's place in Hertfordshire when the Right Honorable A.B. Filmer, the Cabinet Minister, and I were chased across the yard by an angry swan, and Jeeves advanced with the look of stern wisdom on his"—

"You see, Monsieur Jeeves," the chippie cut in, "it is rather a delicate subject."

"Most grave and all that," Raoul added succinctly.

"One I daren't discuss too publicly, since the cause of my distress," big black lashes drooped with a sad sort of "well, drat" sentiment toward her cheekbones, "…dwells here in this very opera house."

Clearing his throat in that soft, sympathetic matter he's got down pat, Jeeves asked, "Might I take the liberty of surmising that this menace of which you allude to is the same figure demanding rather copious sums from the managerial offices here at the Opera Populaire?"

Poor Miss Daae followed his lips closely as he talked, seeming to sound out what he was saying by opening and closing her own lips. You might chalk this up to her not knowing English quite on a first-name basis, but really, most of my acquaintances who first meet Jeeves have the same reaction upon hearing him dispatch an oration. Interpreting it at last, the girl's face brightened and she nodded. "Yes, monsieur! The very one!" Eyes all wide and blue, she whispered in a tense, rushed voice, "But I mustn't speak his name aloud! He would, he would"—

I shuddered at the familiar sudden sharp turn she took, to glance frightfully at that funhouse mirror behind her. Same looks, actions, gestures—it would be most alarming if poor Raoul were to find out the dummy had fallen for his long-lost twin sister.

She made a sudden dive to a dresser at her right, yanking open the drawer with a vehemence I found a bit overwrought, pulling out sheet music and handkerchiefs in a melee of papery things. At last the lady pulled out a note sealed in an envelope and clutching it in one wee hand, she reached for Jeeves's with her other.

Jeeves took it in good stride and merely raised an eyebrow the usual quarter of an inch. "Mademoiselle?"

"Here you are, Monsieur," she said, presenting the note to him like The Lady of the Lake handing The Holy Grail over to King A. "Take this letter with you. It shall explain all. I must go now to rehearsal. Perhaps, Mr. Wooster, you and your man would like to stay and see?"

"Oh-uh-er, maybe some other time, what? Only just breezed in about an hour ago, you know. Ought to settle in first." I knew at some point or another we'd have to buckle down and watch an opera during our stay, but I'm always one for putting off the inevitable so far as the weak Wooster brain can extend the effort.

Christine, hardly aware of my existence I think, merely curtsied rather cutely in my general direction, and then we were off.

Raoul, after hurling little love oaths to the nymph, followed at our heels. I replied to his gallant "Oh-isn't-she-a-tender-goddess"-ings with the proper "Mm, yes, old boy"s until the door to the manager's office swung wide open, revealing a blustering little chap whose limited allowance of hair flew about in wild directions, eyes all a-blaze.

He shouted some French exclamation at me, that, judging by the inflection, seemed like it would have been a pointed "You there!" in English.

I'm usually strapped for a coherent reply whenever anyone says that to me in my mother tongue anyways, so I uttered that best of all international expressions, "eh?"

The man, all red fat face and gesticulating arms, shouted more pointed French accusations at me, looking all the world like an irate Aberdeen terrier named Bartholomew I'm acquainted with, and I feared for the safety of my heels. Aberdeen terriers, as you might not know, are rather addicted to the protein gained from nipping at one's exposed ankles.

Before I was forced to rely on another well-placed "eh," Raoul and Jeeves heroically stepped in and explained away the problem to the chappie utilizing the chappie's own language. It was always a trip to hear Jeeves speak bi- or tri-lingually, and despite my confusion, I rather enjoyed the interlude.

The stout man eventually exhaled indignantly and shut the door in our faces.

"Now, what, say I," said I, "Was the main thought behind that merry meeting of the minds?"

"That was one of the managers, old Moncharmin. He thought you were a detective. They're waiting for one apparently," Raoul laid it out for me.

"Trouble afoot?"

"As always."

At this point, a rather speculative Jeeves, who had been staring with some interest at the closed door, remarked, "Most extraordinary."

"What, the door frame?" I asked innocently.

Jeeves returned to the land of the living. "No, sir. I was contemplating what Monsieur Moncharmin was telling the viscount and me just now about the Phantom and the safety pin."

"How's that again?"

"Apparently the Opera Ghost, or whatever sobriquet this figure adopts, has taken new lengths in procuring the francs he wants from M. Moncharmin and M. Richard's desks."

"Still not all up to speed yet, Jeeves."

Jeeves coughed politely. "Never mind the details, sir. The most prudent action right now is to read Miss Daae's missive."

* * *

><p>Now, I mean to say, look here. I'm an amiable sort of dandy, really. Can't ruffle these feathers too easily. All I look for in life is a warm cup of tea in the mornings and evenings, a piano in tune, a drink at dinnertime, and the occasional pleasant company. Not a demanding cove, not by half. The feelings are not easily damaged in the Wooster vessel.<p>

Yet after Jeeves finished silently reading Christine's lengthy letter, I was suddenly from all sides made to feel nothing short of what the cat finally bungs in after nothing more appetizing is to be found outside in the mud.

"What's it say, Jeeves?" I asked in that chipper tone one uses before dark times settle in.

"I am afraid Miss Daae insists I do not divulge the specific contents, sir."

Well, I was dashed! I mean, it's one thing to frankly state that Jeeves is to do the heavy lifting in the matter, but the chippie ought to at least allow for me to know what it was all about.

"I say!" I protested, a little hurt. "You sure you can't even give me a hint?"

Jeeves, ever careful about the master's feelings, let his face soften a touch, though still set in a determined "the word is mum" expression.

"Perhaps a hint, sir, eventually. But I would feel it an abuse of confidence to"—

"Yes, yes," I relented. "Mustn't abuse a lady's trust and what-not. Speaking of said lady, what did you make of her?"

The speculative gleam was back in the wise Jeeves eyes, and after the lad thought about it a bit, he said, "A most…_timorous _young lady, sir."

"Jumping at her own shadow, you mean?"

"Precisely, sir."

I took a swig of sherry. "She reminds me of the heroines in Erle Stanley Gardner mystery novels. Woeful wenches wrapped in veils and tears, and all of that."

"Indeed, sir."

"Frankly, I like girls a little more on the light-hearted side, you know. Aunt Agatha calls my taste in women as tending toward the frivolous, but I don't know. I like a happy gleam in the eye, an airy laugh on the lips, that's all."

"Yes, sir."

"Cheerful girls, don't you know, Jeeves."

"Yes, sir."

"Like that little Meg Whatever-Her-Dashed-Name was that we bumped into on our way out of the establishment."

"Miss Giry, sir."

"That's it, Jeeves. Nice spirited girl. Not half the stunner Miss Daae is, of course, but looks, as we've learned from the twisted tale of Madeline Bassett, are not everything."

"No, sir."

Before I could improve on my treatise of whether or not a cheerful female with limited physical virtue was equal to a languishing one with all the pretty trimmings, a sharp knock on the door interrupted proceedings. In came the now familiar sight of the pale, moustache-twitching Raoul de Chagny, sweeping right past his best pal from England, Bertie, to convene instead with Jeeves.

"Have you read the letter, Jeeves?"

"Yes, Monsieur. Would you care to retire to the kitchen and discuss it?"

At Raoul's enthusiastic reply in the affirmative, I sat up and took offense at the ongoing scenario. "Oh, I say!" I repeated my earlier cry. "Now this is the limit! Why can Raoul hear what the letter says and not me?" This might come across as a bit petulant, but a man's got to remind his valet who's who in the household, you know.

Ever the paragon of patience, Jeeves gently replied, "Miss Daae asks me in the letter to relay its contents to Monsieur de Chagny alone, sir. Were it my own choice, sir, I would undoubtedly allow you full understanding of the current predicament, but as it were"—

Here Raoul interrupted, testily addressing young Bertram. "Come, come, Bertie! Now's no time to squabble over petty privileges. My dear love's life could very well be at _stake, _you know!"

Well, if there's one thing we Woosters understand, it's when we've been properly shamed. "Oh, all right," I grumbled southward into my chest. "Just…you know…go ahead then. I'll make do out here." And I triumphantly lifted my nose into the air, a perfect picture of suave indifference. "I've more important things to do than angling for a piece of this particular action." A haughty sniff completed this picture of a proud but wounded soul. And believe me, I meant that sniff to sting!

With a quiet, deferential nod in my direction, Jeeves steered Raoul into the kitchen area.

I drummed the old fingers on the old knee for a space, then, unwilling to play the unwanted visitor walking on eggshells while in my very own blasted flat, I swept jauntily over to the piano and started playing some popular new French sheet music I'd bought from the vendor outside.

It was a rather pretty night, what with the window open a crack, allowing a small breeze to come on in and make itself at home. You could just barely make out the outline of the Eiffel Tower from where I sat, and all the French camaraderie the shopkeepers exchanged as they closed up for the night did much to make me feel less alone in the world.

I was just starting to butcher the second verse of the ditty when Jeeves and Raoul emerged, the latter less nervous and more world-conquering in his expression.

"Well, well," I said lightly, devil-may-care nonchalance back in my voice, "Everything on the up-and-up?"

Raoul sat beside me on the piano bench. "Now look here, old man," he began. "Jeeves and I have talked it over, and there's something dashed important you must do."

I was still the casual _gentilhomme; _nothing could touch me.

"Oh, yes? Am I being allowed into the inner circle at last?"

Raoul attempted remonstrating with me again. "Come off it, Bertie! Someday you'll understand everything all right, then you won't be so sore. Now listen. Here's what we need you to do."

He shot an anxious glance at Jeeves, who was hovering nearby at a respectable position beside the piano. He inclined his head at the love-struck loon, urging him to continue.

Raoul took a deep breath and plunged. "We need you to look after Christine at the opera for the next few days."

I wagged the head a bit, trying to clear my brain. "Eh, uh, what?'

Jeeves smoothly interjected. "For the next few days, sir, Monsieur de Chagny and I are required in certain places of the opera house where we do not desire any undue attention from that certain third party Miss Daae alluded to today. And as this third party interests himself primarily with the comings-and-goings of Miss Daae, spending her days at the opera house with you should pique his attentions most thoroughly."

"You'll be bait, in other words!" Raoul said brightly, slapping me on the back.

Jeeves's expression didn't change, but his eyes closed after Raoul's exclamation, correctly surmising what my reaction would be to the silly ass's summation of my future role in the fiasco.

"I don't want to be the bloody bait for a mad man!" I protested roundly. "See here! I won't do it, I won't!"

Raoul's face reddened with disappointment in me. "Bertie!" He cried aghast.

I shook the loaf. "Don't 'Bertie' me, young Raoul. It's out of the question."

"But it's _so simple!"_

"Then why don't you bally well do it? She's your fiancee."

"I _can't! _I have to undertake a task much more dangerous, so you should be thankful yours is so light in comparison."

"How is it so light when the 'Opera Ghost' or whatever he is has his jealous eyes on me the whole time?"

Raoul wore a look of sad despair. "Bertie. Is this Bertie Wooster? The young boy who reached out to me, a displaced little French lad in chilly Britain, and took me into his confidence? Is this that same warm-hearted boy?"

"I'm not doing it."

"Remember how I slipped you answers in Latin? Do you remember that, Bertie?"

"Fat lot of good it did me, I almost failed the blooming class."

"Bertie. You must do this for me. For _us."_

"No."

"Bertie."

"I shan't."

"Bertie."

"You can't make me."

"Bertie."

"No."

"_Bertie."_

"Oh, all right!"

Raoul's face relaxed, the right corner of Jeeves's mouth climbed serenely upward, and I resigned myself to my grim fate.

* * *

><p>Funny thing. All this talk of ghosts…I mean to say, the combination of that spooky chamber of horrors calling itself the Paris Opera House, the mysterious damsels, the secret letters, and the inexplicable safety pins must have gotten to me.<p>

That night I tossed and turned, and had the strangest, most realistic dream I've ever had in my humdrum life:

Two eyes, bright red and full to the brim with what I couldn't characterize as good will, glared at me in the darkness.


	3. Series of Ugly Confrontations

I suppose the weather enjoys mocking me with its well-timed irony. Ever since Madeline made me understand that I was to be chained to her droopy side from now unto infinity, it had been all sunny skies and tweeting birds, both at home and now, it proved, abroad—at total variance, of course, to how I felt: like a kicked dog of the lower order.

For example, take the idyllic ride to the opera on the first appointed day I was to serve as Christine Daae's caretaker. The air was balmy, the citizens robust in spirit and in health, and we passed about ten lovely, brazen looking mademoiselles on the first block alone. Were it not for his assignment, Bertram could have doubtlessly found much in the way of entertainment and fine company in bright Paris. But instead, the taxi parked firmly and unequivocally outside that ostentatious prison, the Paris Opera.

"Well, Jeeves," I said, stepping out of the cab onto the steps, Jeeves following my lead. "Here's where our roads diverge, I suppose, for the time being and all that."

"So it would seem, sir."

I heaved a sigh that I hoped tore guiltily at the blighter, seeing as it was he and Raoul who maneuvered this nasty trick. However, he looked as serene as always, and had the gall to say, "I must confess, sir, that I myself would be most galvanized at the prospect of examining the opera house as you are about to. I understand their treatment of Gounod's _Faust _is both lyrical and powerful in its"—

"Jeeves," I interrupted.

"Yes, sir?"

"Stuff it."

"Very good, sir."

I shivered, throwing a sidelong glance to the entrance of the abode. "And you're not coming in with me, Jeeves?"

"No, sir. I must rendezvous with Monsieur de Chagny."

I knitted my b. "Yes, so you've said. But that's the puzzle: I thought you had doings here at the ol' Opry, so why take the action elsewhere…?" I halted at the subtle look on Jeeves's face. I was trespassing on private territory.

I made a dash at what-do-I-care disregard once more. "Never mind, Jeeves, never mind. None of my business, of course. Just the bait, don't you know, I'm merely the cog in the grand scheme of"—

I halted again, but not from any censuring expression on Jeeves's face. It had more to do, really, with a Persian chappie wearing one of those soft, wedge-shaped hats appearing at Jeeves's elbow. The stranger's mossy green eyes penetrated the left side of my valet's face.

"Monsieur Jeeves," he said in clipped dialect, his face stony and serious.

Jeeves raised polite eyebrows in the man's vicinity. "Yes, sir?"

Now staring Jeeves straight in the blinders, the man said, "I would speak with you. _Alone_." The last word was pointed in my direction. I bristled appropriately. It gets to you after awhile, folks pushing you aside like you were a red-headed stepchild, or however you want to put it.

Before I could give this blister what-for, Jeeves raised his bowler hat to me and said, "Good day, Mr. Wooster. I shall see you this evening." And with that heart-warming cheerio, he shimmered off with this mysterious new acquaintance.

I harrumphed silently for a mo', then took a deep breath and plunged in to whatever sorry fate awaited your steely protagonist.

After asking directions—I certainly couldn't remember how to wriggle my way through that labyrinthine maze to the lady's doorstep—I tapped upon her door and was let in again to see Christine.

She regarded me in a vague sort of way, her face an unrealized lament, as if thinking, "steady on, girl, he might not prove much better company than a stuffed sheep, but I'm sure it's better than coming down with a severe case of indigestion or something." Which was a sporting attitude, all things considered.

"Monsieur Wooster," she said in that delicate, sleepy way, like a victim the hypnotist forgets and leaves on the somnambulist setting a little too long.

"What-ho, sunshine! Dispense at once with this 'Monsieur Wooster' biz—that particular formality gives me the whim-whams, if I may be so crude. Bertie is the preferred appellation for those prepared to see matters through that far."

Maybe I applied a bit more cheer to the hearty greeting than I needed to. I tend to push the pep when I'm in a situation where it seems most lacking. As such, the poor thing looked a little jarred by my joviality—contrasted with her own despondent exterior, and so forth.

Yet after the shock settled in, a most curious change occurred in the wee one—an absolute corking smile lit up her map! It did her wonders, I must say.

She reached out happy little hands to mine. "Bonjour, Bertie! I believe I shall indeed take up your offer and see matters through, thank you. Therefore, I insist you do the same: Christine, please."

I enthusiastically shook a fragile pinkie. "Right-ho, right-ho, Christine! What's on the menu today?"

She tilted her pretty head to one side, the tiniest smidgen perplexed. "Menu? Are you hungry?"

"Not food. The happenings. The current action, exploits of the hour. Er, the what-have-you? To put in layman's terms, what do you fancy doing today?"

Her face relaxed into another toothsome grin. "Oh, oui!" She let out a golden giggle. "You do speak most…whimsically, Monsieur—I mean, Bertie." She stood and regarded me as one would a mischievous puppy with a sausage caught hanging out of its gaping maw. "This cove's not to be censured, but should instead do for a laugh," seemed her thought of the day. 'Twas the fate of Bertram in the best of situations, so everything looked clear so far.

"Well, Bertie," she continued. "We have some thirty minutes before rehearsal, so maybe you'd like a tour of the backstage?"

"Nothing would suit me better, I think. This old cave looks like it's worth a gander." Just in case she treasured this house of horrors, I glossed over my true assessment of the morbid bullpen.

And so began a rather thorough acquaintance I made with the haunt, which over the next several weeks, I got to know pretty bally well. Did the place continue giving me the shivers? Well, yes. Even moreso, really. Black corners down winding passageways, mysterious trapdoors, narrow corridors—had someone cried out, "There's Count Dracula feasting on a stagehand!" I'd not have been surprised.

Yet the atmosphere was cheered somewhat by the pleasing company I kept. Christine proved herself in the right spirits a chatty wench, and we mingled with the crew backstage—a good-hearted lass, Christine apparently knew them all by name, and was on the friendliest of relations with them (yet the Swedish country-girl hadn't the slightest clue how to go about schmoozing with the upper-crust patrons or even her fellow cast members). Meeting the populaire's less glamorous denizens helped humanize the environment, which otherwise struck me as particularly gruesome and soulless. Then again, maybe it wasn't. Who am I to judge, it could have been the very opposite. As I'm often reminded by those closest to my heart, I'm not the most soulful of chaps myself.

After that first day with Mlle. D, I returned to my flat in the evening with markedly higher spirits than when I started that morning.

I still leaped with some heart on the drink Jeeves had laid out for me. I called out to the good soul, who biffed in at his master's summons.

"Well, Jeeves, how went it today?"

He seemed to weigh his words. "Most…informative enterprise, sir. I suspect we shall make some progress yet."

"Ripping. I must say Christine is proving so far a much chummier companion than originally calculated, Jeeves."

"That is an abatement of some anxiety, sir."

"I'll say. It's one thing to muck about that antediluvian establishment for the majority of my time here, but it helps to have a pretty, cheery youth at one's side during the exploration. Oh, say, speaking of all things Gothic," I said, sitting up. "I'm suddenly remembering that odd little confrontation you had with that Persian looking personage earlier this morning. Who was that, Jeeves? What did the fellow want?"

Jeeves coughed discreetly. "I am unsure how much this particular gentleman desires his identity held within the confines of secrecy, sir, but I will risk the liberty to conjecture he will be of the utmost assistance in our endeavors."

"Can't tell me any more than that?"

A wise, tight-lipped look of respectful regret passed the man's face.

"Oh, all right then, Jeeves. Carry on, pip-pip."

The following weeks I passed, somewhat expectantly, at Christine's side. And all in all, the experience proved both better and worse than I expected. She—at first, at least—was one of the more pleasant surprises I'd encountered in a while. I hate to say, recent developments had succeeded by miles in turning my sunny disposish into that of a pessimist's, so the Wooster constitution was pleased to find she exceeded the rather low expectations I had set. When I saw her that first day all doleful and wistful, I took those qualities as permanent fixtures of her personality; but really, like many people, she simply reacted to whatever circs she found herself in. When she was hounded by some dangerous person- her life and her sweetheart's life in potential peril- she acted, well, like a hounded girl in potential peril.

However, once she accustomed herself to the admittedly random sight of Bertram attaching himself to her side, we became rather chummy.

True, she occasionally let out the dreary sigh and the trembling lip, but once I explained my presence and started babbling on about what my story was and all, she became much more cheerful and talkative herself. She told me about her father, whom she had thought the world of and all, and who had been quite fond of Raoul, but who had died about five or six years back. The poor popsy had obviously not fully recovered—even a fathead like your author could see that much at a glance. So I went about distracting her, amusing her with tales from my misspent youth escaping treacherous engagements, palling around the metrop with Jeeves and members of the Drones Club. You know, the sort of exploits that would make stern members of parliament denounce Bertram Wooster as just the type of mite detrimental to England's staunch reputation.

For a person used to performing, she was also an exceedingly acquiescent audience, laughing at all the good bits, and sympathetic when called for.

Once I whacked up the ginger and asked, "Not to overstep the boundaries of our camaraderie, sweets, but can't you give me a hint about what goes on?"

She was a tad befuddled. "Bertie?"

"You know, all this Phantom business and whatnot."

She shivered. "No, Bertie. I don't think I'd like to tell you."

I took her answer in stoic good form. "Oh, gosh, why not? The whole thing's absolutely killing me with the ambiguity of it all."

At those words, her blue eyes flew wide open and she covered my yap dramatically with one small hand.

"Hush, foolish boy! It's because I _don't _want you killed that I can't tell you! I…I don't want any of this touching you. Do your hear?" She recovered her composure, pinkening rather cutely. She cleared her throat. "Now, why don't you tell me again about the time you and Jeeves recovered your Aunt Agatha's pearls from a woman she tried to marry you off to, and how you held the whole fiasco over your Aunt's head?"

And that was the last time I ever tried broaching the subject of ghosties with her.

When I wasn't falling asleep in the seats during rehearsal, I brought the lady lunch and we wandered about the place chatting. She seemed most enthusiastic when I related stories of my youth spent with Raoul, particularly the time the goodie-goodie was dared to sneak into the school's kitchen and steal a jar of jam. From where we studious lads had hidden ourselves in the dormitory corridor, we heard a great CRASH, an irate chef's bark of fury, and the scampering of hurried feet.

There, with his hands clasped tightly around the jar, was the young Raoul hurling toward us, bulging-eyed and white as a sheet. We of course ensconced him away into one of our rooms, and the collective excitement, along with a hearty slap on the back from Harold "Stinker" Pinker, made the whelp give out a low moan and slide to the floor in a faint.

Rather than embarrassing her with the knowledge that her White Knight swooned at mere jam-theft, Christine let out a merry little laugh and said disbelievingly, "He, a sailor!"

A good sense of humor, that girl. For instance, every once in a while, I'd get the heebie-jeebies and feel like those red eyes from that first night in Paris were upon my wiry visage again. I'd suddenly leap and turn myself about, and animatedly point out to the girl what I felt sure was a bit of cape disappearing into a trapdoor. She'd address me with an adorable pout after looking over my quivering form, "Another fine example of the sturdy Wooster stock in action!" Then she'd beam her pretty teeth at me and after a deprecating laugh my spirit was stout once more, until the next inevitable episode.

All in all, Christine became decreasingly distracted by her woes and more inclined to laugh and take part in life. Now and again we'd sneak onto the empty stage and I'd serenade her on the piano with some of my favorites. She became quite keen on "Forty-Seven Ginger-Headed Sailors," and eventually came round to joining me in a hearty chorus or two.

So everything was pretty much matey between us, until one day that came upon me out of a blue sky.

Throughout, of course, I'd had to sit and watch that bally _Faust _nearly every day. Christine was now resident biggie, the previous diva, Carlotta, having decided to heave-ho after a chandelier fell during one of her arias and she inexplicably started croaking like a toad. Being made of finer mettle presumably, Christine stayed and made the show go on like a good sport. Everyone I spoke to agreed it was an improvement, since, after I described Cora to her, Christine exclaimed, "My god! Sounds just like that cow Carlotta!" Probably not the most pleasant woman, is my educated guess.

My feelings about sitting day after day watching the same opera were gloomy at best. I'm not much for high-brow entertainment, so it was something akin to nails on a chalkboard hearing the same set again and again. Sometimes I'd sneak off for a smoke, or to mingle with the crew. Like Christine, I had become pretty friendly with the cast of characters making up the background of Paris's House of Macabre.

Listening to the opera wasn't always torture, though. Christine, after all, livened the proceedings on most occasions, her voice everything it was advertised.

However, she was a dashed _inconsistent _performer; even a novice bumpkin like myself could notice that. One note, she was absolutely heavenly, the next—particularly if something fell backstage, or someone coughed unexpectedly—she'd waver and wobble, her eyes darting about uncertainly like a game of marbles gone awry.

On this day I was made to understand something I didn't particularly want to understand, she had mostly been nailing each note vivaciously and expertly. She was all smiles and bursting confidence, tra-la-la-ing herself all about the stage, winking with great moxy in my direction when the director wasn't looking.

I was actually enjoying myself somewhat. Then I heard a spirited little, "Well, hello, there!" to my left.

"Ah, Meg!" I said companionably to the missy who sat herself down beside me.

Meg Giry was a ballet dancer, and if you remember what I said about her previously, I was a wee bit taken with the boopsy. I had gotten to know her rather well during the times I'd sneak out during rehearsals more boring than the present one. She wasn't exactly a rip-roaring beauty. Her complexion was less than dewy and was by way of being more along the sallow side, and she was overall rather pathetically bird-boned. However, she did have a dazzling smile, along with the most striking large eyes. They were of a unique violetish-black color, and she had the shiniest, inkiest black hair that flowed beguilingly down her shoulders when it wasn't pulled back into a tight bun. Dashed attractive and lively, with a bit of implied wickedness on the side, was she. Luckily, she was already engaged, albeit in secret, to one of Raoul's chums, Baron Henri de Castelot-Barbezac.

I say this as a good thing for the very reason that I could, without a whole lot of provocation, find myself becoming besotted with the girl. And while I enjoyed her society quite a bit, she put me too much in mind of someone named Bobbie Wickham back home, whom I'm occasionally smitten with, but who usually gives me only grief. For as fun and winsome as these spirited girls are, they're undoubtedly always mucking up some sort of mischief to involve us poor dandies in until we don't have the slightest clue which way is up.

So as she was safely affianced, I felt secure in chewing the fat with her. "How are you, old thing?" I addressed her.

She was dressed in her tutu, a chic sweater thrown about her shoulders. Her English wasn't as refined as C. Daae's, but I must say that rather contributed to her piquant charms. "Oh, you know, a little of that and a little of there. We must make do, yes?"

"Indubitably," I agreed soundly.

She batted long lashes. "But, oh, Burr-tee"—that was how she pronounced my moniker—"Maman is being so foolish and addle-noodled for Henri. Most aggravation, yes!"

"Really?" I asked surprised. I didn't want to say so, but were I the mother of a ballet girl, I think I'd be about the opposite of disapproving when a well-to-do baron saunters in asking for my progeny's hand. "Er, uh, do you mind if I ask why?"

"You mean, because he is baron, and I, petite rat? Oui, under circumstances normal, Maman would be all for. But non! You see," here the little lady leaned in close, the gleam of excitement dancing in those gigantic peepers, as she whispered, "Maman knows the Opera Ghost!"

I blinked dumbly. "How's that?"

She pointed to one of the box seats, comparatively isolated from the others and closest to the scenery. In dramatic stage whisper, Meg intoned, "There! See? Is Box 5. Maman is its keeper. It's the ghost's box. He sits every opera."

I dared a skeptical scoff. "Oh, come now, Meggie. Let's be reasonable. For one thing, I must object to the whole idea of an opera ghost. For the second, were I a specter from beyond, I'd say 'to hell with opera boxes,' and simply float about the place at random."

She made a mouth of impatience. "Silly thing! What you know? You know nothing, of course. I understand that much by now." She drew herself up with an endearing look of familial pride on that swarthy little face. "Maman has spoken with ghost. Spoken at great length. And he promised to make me an empress because she's served him so well."

Well, the girl for all her charms was obviously of the fantastical description, so I decided there was no point reasoning with her and decided to take the easy way out and humor the doll. "An empress, eh? Not bad."

Her eyes flashed lightning. "Oui, bad! Tres bad! Is why she won't approve Henri!"

"Eh?"

She rolled her eyes at my thick wit. "Think, man! If you been promised emperor for son-in-law, would you settle for mere baron?"

I saw her side of the issue. "Ah! Well. I can understand how that might attract an errant fly or two into the ointment. Dashed unlucky, that."

She shrugged, which was a nice, careless gesture that I thought showcased her courage in the face of such adversity. "Hm. No matter. I have ways."

"Ways?"

"Ways." She eyed me cautiously, dark pupils sparkling, all the while stifling a deleterious—if I may borrow vocabulary from Jeeves—grin. "Oui. Ways." She leaned in again, and I can't say I minded that closer view of her midnight orbs and shiny raven coiffure. "_S'enfuir ensemble."_

"English, dear thing, English for the poor fish you're conversing with."

"Ah, my mistake. What is the word you English say so stupidly…elopement! Henri and I will run away together."

I smiled, admiring once again the vim and vigor in this sprite. "Well, that's the right stuff. Takes a load of guts. I tip my _chapeau_ to you, mademoiselle."

"As well you should," she agreed matter-of-factly. "Very stealthy, the operation. Maman must _not _know, till all over. That why _you _must house us first night! And be witness, yes?"

I started in my seat, suddenly thrust, as it were, _in median res _into this little fairy story of hers. "Me? Why me, for all that's good and h?"

Another graceful shrug. "Why not you? You don't do nobody any bit of good as you are, so why no change? Do something for someone. Do wastrel like you world of good."

I bristled at so heartless a charge. "I'll have you know, young Giry, that a great deal of your speaker's time is spent helping out friends in jams. So I'm not sure where you get off"—

She brightened, swatting my knee. "See! Then you don't mind at all, yes? Used to lending helpful hand."

Her smile was so wide and brilliant, those eyes so devilish and sparkly, that my frigid heart melted and I let fly my white flag of surrender. "All right, all right. I'm at your disposal, you damned squirt, you."

She patted my cheek fondly. "Oh, what a man, what a man! Will let you know first thing we pull it off!"

"I await the nuptials eagerly," I said with but a touch of remorse around the edges. She really was lovely and charming…I was starting to regret assisting marrying her off to some other chappie. But, well, we Woosters don't play heartbroken very well, so I shrugged it off in the same fashion that little Giry shrugged off disapproving mothers and friends protesting impositions.

We then turned our attention to the stage, where Christine was hurling out stanzas and trilling along with all the right gusto, at a dramatic moment in proceedings where she points the accusing finger of condemnation at the fellow playing Mephistaphastapho….oh, whatever his dashed name was. Anyways, the pertinent point is she was blowing us all away in tip-top form.

"I say, she does know how to belt it, doesn't she?" I whispered into Meg's ear.

Meg nodded. "No surprise. What happens when you're tutored by le Fantome."

Had I been drinking, this would have been the perfect opportunity for what those in the music hall call a spit take. "Tutored by the _Phantom? _Now, really Meg, that is too much."

"Is true! Doubt me?"

"I must say a trifle."

"Well, I must say you're an imbecile. He's in love with her."

Christine hit a high note with room to spare, wowing us again.

"Truly remarkable," Meg exhaled, "Particular when one considers she used to sing like surprised chicken."

Now, I was perfectly fond of Christine at this point, but Meg said this in that adorable way she has of making the most disparaging remark sound like the innocent observation of a baby. And that, combined with my knowledge that Meg was one of the few cast members who actually got on with Christine, made me feel justified in chortling at this assessment. Meg joined me, and we sat good-naturedly tittering, discussing for a few minutes other amusing matters as friends do, laughter sprinkled throughout.

And it was in the middle of one of these bursts of mirth that it happened.

Christine's singing faltered.

We were surprised. She'd been having at it so steadily, that her sudden wobbly warbling caught everyone's attention.

Her tragic eyes were pointed in our direction.

She dropped her head down and stopped singing altogether.

Then in a weak sort of voice, she said to the stage manager, "_Excusez-moi, Monsieur Gabriel. Excusez-moi._" Then all in a-tremble, she tore off the stage completely, presumably to her dressing room.

Well, there was a bit of a fuss up on the stage, everyone going "What-ho" at the unexpected upset, and then Meg jabbed me in the shoulder with her knuckles.

"Go see to her!" She hissed.

"Oh, uh, me?"

"Yes! You're her guardian angel for the time being, non?"

"Good lord, don't call me that. The poor thing wouldn't stand a chance if that were really the case. Still, I'll bite the old bullet and go see what tricks are afoot."

I traipsed off to the dressing room—after weeks losing myself down endless corridors, I finally got the location down—swinging my whangee walking stick carelessly, not anticipating the drama about to unload itself on Bertram's lap.

I knocked jauntily on the door. "What-ho, Lady Margarita! Allow an old pest in to commiserate?"

An uncharacteristically sharp voice answered me. "Yes, yes, come in."

I entered and found the poppet sitting with her back to me, hunched determinedly over her wig for the show, combing and picking at the thick yellow braids. She sniffed haughtily once she determined I was behind her. "What is it you want?"

I confess to feeling rather put off by her cold air. Not at all like her. "Oh, you know, just breathing in the scenery, this kingly dressing room I find myself in. Enjoying the wallpaper. Dashed realistic rendering of tulips."

"Narcissi," she said sullenly.

"Oh, is that how you pluralize Narcissus? Here I've just avoided naming them en masse to avoid humiliation."

Another pointed sniff was all the audience approval I received.

I dropped the frivolous flower talk and got down to business. "Now see here, old horse, you've thrown the company into a bit of disarray running off like this. Dramatic exits are fine, so long as they're in the script. This departure, I take it, was not part of the aria. Now, open up your heart to kindly Uncle Bertram, and tell me"—

She whipped around with lightning-quick dexterity, and I jumped at her strawberry colored face and moist eyes. "Don't talk to me of hearts, Mr. Wooster! _You _obviously don't have one!"

"Oh, I say!" I objected, attacked from all sides. "Now, come!"

"Or if you _do _have a heart," she continued, chin wobbling like an angry teapot left stewing on the kettle, "It apparently only interests itself in Meg Giry!" There was only one word for her tone, and it was accusatory.

This was my day to be confounded. "Meg? Little Meg?"

She mimicked me rather cruelly. "Yes, 'Meg, Little Meg.' _Your _Little Meg, apparently."

"What's Meg got to do with this?"

Her blue eyes narrowed at me. The look in them reminded me perfectly of a glance I'd often received from Sir Watkyn Bassett, Madeline's father and a former magistrate. He once pinned me with a similar glare of sick loathing when I appeared before him on the bench after pinching a police constable's helmet.

"I saw you giggling with her like a couple of ninnies. Very chummy you've become," Christine spat out.

"Giggling? Ninnies? Christine, you shock me. I dare say you shock me with this untoward vehemence. You're not yourself, old fruit."

"Don't call me old fruit! Don't call me anything!" Her demands were most unreasonable. "You're a boor. You love her, don't you?"

"Well…no, no I don't. I fancy her somewhat, yes. Dashed pretty eyes and smile. But, dear thing, a nice pair of eyes and winning beam do not love make. And besides, she's soon to be wed to your betrothed's pal Castelot-Barbezac."

For the first time she gave the impression of calming down a little. "Really?"

"Yes! We've just now been discussing it. Girl's just about twisted up in knots she's so mad about the goon, and I'm all for it. Not the marrying type, am I, and she's too much of a fire-cracker for me to handle even if I were."

Christine closed her eyes and grimaced. Then she let out a low moan—sort of like a fog-horn—and buried her face into her arms and started sobbing uncontrollably.

I'm not at my best during unexpected events, and so I didn't cut a very dashing figure at this juncture. I shuffled my feet around, uttered an awkward 'see here,' and patted her blonde head clumsily.

"What's that?" I asked at last, hearing what sounded like, "Mime uhfoo," mumbled into the crook of her elbow.

She lifted the bean a little, but refused to face me. "I said, 'I'm a fool.'"

"Ah! Makes much more sense than the other thing. But now, now. Why are you a fool, exactly, hm?"

She turned around to face me reluctantly, wiping away some of her tears, still looking away a little. "Oh…oh…because I'm very confused, and…I just made myself out to be a blithering nincompoop. I'm so embarrassed!"

"No reason for embarrassment on that front, not when you're in my company! Why, acting the blithering nincompoop is how I generally pass the time of day. Up to this point, I'd been wondering what was wrong with you that you didn't behave similarly."

She cheered momentarily here, laughing lightly, then her face took on that abashed, woebegone cover again. "Oh, Bertie. I really am so very, very foolish. I mean, why should I care even if you _did_ love Meg?"

"Worried for the girl's welfare?"

She shook the loaf sadly. "No, it's not that. Not that at all." A weary sigh escaped her pouty lips, a soppy sound I wished she'd leave off making so frequently. "No, my friend, I wish it were that simple."

A pensive silence passed.

"Well, that's that." I announced perkily. "Care for a spot of supper? I hear that café 'round the corner"—

"No, Bertie, it's not that simple at all." She seemed stuck on this "lack-of-simplicity" wheeze. I was on the brink of getting mildly impatient before I noticed a quake-like tremor shoot through her. Her eyes were marbling this way and that again, and then she shakily said, "You see…you see….my dear…I've become rather _used _to you, you know."

A timid hand rested on mine.

I got a dizzy, tell-tale sensation in my stomach: something was warning Bertram that events were about to take a sharp left turn around a steep corner.

This conviction was fortified, if that's the word I want, by the look in her wet, starry eyes. She continued her discourse. "Everyone—Raoul, Mamma Valerius"—her guardian's widow—"…and _he _of course…they all expect so much from me. So much love. So much devotion. So much blood, sweat, and tears. And they are each so…so…_serious _and _urgent _about it all_._ Putting so much on me, all on me. Do you know I hold the fate of two men in my hands?"

"Blimey!"

"Yes, blimey, indeed. I can't take it, you know, Bertie!"

"There, there," I said, patting her little chin. Wasn't the wisest gesture I could have made. Seemed to remind her of my presence, which led to:

"But _you, _Bertie. You are different."

I wasn't at all a supporter of the reverent expression on her face as she gazed at me. 'Reverent' is not a word that should ever be associated with your narrator. 'Happy-go-lucky,' I'm all for. 'Barmy,' that's fair. 'Trivial,' even that's reconcilable. 'Mentally negligible' I start to take offense, but heaven knows I've had it hurled my way anyhow. 'Hare-brained, peripheral, whimsical, pointless,' I've worn many a synonym to 'basically not worth a hill of beans.'

But never, _never_, would I expect a worshipful fixed stare directed at my being.

I made efforts at once to nip it in the bud, this "reverential-worship' stuff.

"Now, see here, Christine"—

Her hand only tightened around mine. "Yes, you are different." The voice was too husky for my comfort, too weighty with emotion. "You are light, carefree, delightful. I've had more joy with you in three weeks than in all my months here at the opera house. The last time I remember feeling so giddy—under my own volition, that is-was when Raoul and I were children, and Father was still alive." She inhaled and stirred up all her courage, announcing to my shirking ears, "I believe I'm fond of you."

I did my best to escape the inevitable. "Er, uh, yes, well, you know, I'm very fond of you, too, old topper. No need for all the theatrics, we're good friends, what?"

"No, I mean…fonder than friendship. Much fonder."

Well, where could I go from there? I don't know if you've ever had anyone ram their head straight into your stomach—might not happen much outside the Drones Club—but take my word that when it happens you get a sort of sickly, "Who-Did-What-With-Where" floaty feeling, before you regain your standing.

Well, what I mean to say is, I'm not telling you this because I think you should be better informed about head-to-stomach injuries, but because this is precisely how I felt at Christine's revelation. Mighty blow, it was.

You see, a number of pertinent items shot in random order throughout my rattled brain.

Item One, she was engaged.

Item Two, she was engaged to Raoul de Chagny, cherished boyhood friend of my youth.

Item Three, she must be nutters to fancy a cove like me.

I mean, there is a type of girl out there who eats me up with a spoon, I will admit—but they're usually like another accidental former fiancee of mine, Honoria Glossup: big, brainy, athletic girls, who see in me a creature moulded from jelly, someone spineless and lacking in productivity, but whom they can train and prune into proper order. Those girls certainly aren't _my _type, but I'm like catnip to them for some reason. Must inspire maternal yearnings in those sturdy hearts.

However, a bird like Christine Daae? Infatuated with a vagabond like me? Affairs had clearly taken a turn for the ludicrous, so I decided to put the kibosh on this nonsense.

"See here, I"—

She threw her head into her arms again, stalling my words. "Oh, no, no! I don't know what's wrong with me! I _do _love Raoul! I _do!" _She turned her sad face to Bertram's astounded one and said, "Bertie, you must leave me now. I…I'm not thinking straight. I might love you, I might love Raoul, I might love you both. And I don't even know where to place…_him_. I don't know. But I must think. I must truly, deeply think."

Even if 'love' hadn't reared its thorny head, 'think' is a word that will clear me out of any room in a hurry. She hit the nail right on the head using that one.

"Oh, right!" I assented eagerly, smashing my hat firmly on my head and grabbing my walking stick. "You just…you just take your time and all! Um, try remembering the good times with Raoul and everything! By-gone days at the seaside, and what-not! He's a good chap, a steady chap. Me, I once attacked a coat-stand I took for a burglar with my umbrella. I was…under the weather after visiting a friend on his birthday, but it's still a good example of my behavior even when I'm in top form."

Rather than turning her stomach, liked I'd hoped, my efforts at sabotaging my character only softened my image in her eyes. "Oh, Bertie," she murmured. "You're so good. So thoughtful to take up Raoul's cause at your own expense…what a true, noble heart you have."

I frowned, concerned. "Are you sure you're not thinking of someone else?"

She bowed her head, chin wavering again. "Good night, Bertie."

I acknowledged my cue to exit with glad relief. "Good night, Christy, dear! Good night, la la la!" And with that dignified adieu to the lady- who merely held out a weary hand in farewell- I lurched out into the corridor.

I leaned against her closed door for awhile, and let out a whistle of dismay. I ambled down the passage and decided to catch my breath and gather my thoughts by ducking into the nearest opera box.

I sat down and rested the harried noodle in my hands for a space, massaging the temples. Raoul might make a fine, dashing romantic hero. But as I'm never what you'd call a lady's man, I flinched at the prospect of taking on that title. I could only trust Christine, an obvious romantic herself, would see the light of day, and toddle off into the sunset with her matching suitor.

A merry looking older woman breezed into my box, apparently the portress or whatever they call them. She had a scatter-brained, amiable look about her that I found oddly comforting at the moment, and I called out softly so she wouldn't be surprised by my presence.

"Oh! You are the Englishman, are you not?" She asked in her thick accent.

"Guilty as charged."

Her kindly old face softened, and she asked, "Don't you look down in the dumps. Young men like you should be chipper, out to conquer the world, not sullen!"

I smiled grimly. "Oh, I'm with you one-hundred percent. Would love nothing more than to kick my heels and seize the day, as it were. But I'm hounded by heavy thoughts, madame."

She tut-tutted. "There, that's your first mistake. Young men don't wear heavy thoughts well. Hurts their heads, and damages their posture, too. You need a proper bucking up!"

I smiled again. I was liking this old bird.

She started dusting the banisters. "Now, you go on and tell me what's bothering you. That will make the heaviness go away. All you need to do is talk, and all bad thoughts will float away. Go on, young man! Chirp away!"

Well, I thought, it might be nice to tell some disassociated person all about my woes, without fear of censure or derision. Jeeves was always good for that, but for obvious reasons, I couldn't turn to him at the immediate moment. This nice, grandmotherly dame would fill in nicely, I surmised.

"Well, you see, a lady friend of mine just now confessed affectionate feelings toward me, but not of the platonic variety. This sticks in my craw because, one, I'm not exactly of a serious, marrying nature, yet I don't wish to hurt the little coot. And secondly, she's by way of being engaged to a friend of mine."

"Mm'hm. Mm'hm."

"Rather a sticky sitch, eh?"

"Oh, yes, yes. Most unfortunate of her to fancy you, the silly girl."

"That's what I thought. And the whole mess got set in motion because of some bally conversation I was having with Meg Giry, the dancer."

This piqued the lady's interest.

"Oh? Meg Giry? Little Meg?"

"That's the shrub. My lady friend got jealous of her. 'Course, nothing's going on between us. Between Meg and me, that is."

"Oh, no, of course not!" The lady said laughing, as if such a thought was preposterous to even contemplate.

"No. She's mad about some baron, name of Castelot-Barbezac. Good fellow, handy at a game of rummy. Little lady's planning on eloping with him in a few day's time, and so that's another on my long list of gripes. See, I've been wrangled in to help—I say!" I sat up suddenly, breaking off, looking the granny over. "You all right, then?"

I asked this not out of the blue, but because the lady had stopped dusting and was staring me down with eyes that no longer held the motherly, indulgent gleam in them. They were now razor-sharp and blazingly intense. Rather gave me visual whip-lash.

Her nostrils flared violently as she fumed, "So, she's going to elope with him, is she?"

"Well…yes, that's the sketch, so far."

"Not if _I _have anything to say about it!"

"Well…what _have _you got to say about it?"

She drew herself up, lips in a tight, hard line. "_Only that I am Meg Giry's mother."_

"Oh, heavens!" I cried out. In the midst of my moping, I had plum forgotten that this was Box Five, and that Little Meg had bally well informed me that her mother was the box-keeper here. All this time I had been spilling my secrets and hers to the worst possible person.

This worst possible person harrumphed with marked verve and then stomped out with a flourish, muttering something in French about "_fille ingrate_" and "_une imperatrice, pas baronne!_"

I oozed down lower into my seat, groaning. It needed but this. I knew now the extent of the fiery temper running through the veins of Giry females. And once it got out that Bertram Wooster had been the one to breeze in and stomp carelessly all over her dreams, Little Meg would undoubtedly morph into Little Hellbeast, bent toward revenging herself on this same chap Wooster.

What a day, really.

"It can't get any worse than this," I mumbled.

Funny how whenever you say that, fate always has a hearty chuckle at your expense. He wipes away a gleeful tear, then slaps the utmost, terrible, very worst event right on your head, just to prove you a bloomer for so gullible a statement.

And this time fate appeared as a gloved hand squeezing its fingers around my windpipe.

Paralyzed in so tight a grip, I stiffened as ice-cold breath hissed into my ear, a serpent-like voice whispering, "_I will not have two rivals, Wooster. Leave Christine alone, or face your death. She will always—**always**—sing for me and me alone! See her again, and you take your worthless life into your own bumbling hands."_

Before I could turn around and face my assailant—not that I was bally well planning on it—the fingers left my throat, the hand was gone, the voice stopped hissing, and I was apparently alone in the box once more.

All rational thought fled my inadequate faculties, and physical action took over.

In other words, your hero legged it toward the nearest exit.

Jeeves must be found and told all.


	4. Self Imposed Exile Cut Short

Relations between Jeeves and self hadn't been frosty as of late, mind you. But the former's prolonged activities with Raoul and my own gadding about the opera with that pretty blonde blister had kept us from as regularly meeting up and swapping war stories as I would have liked during our time in Paris. Yet the good bean made up for lost time by rallying round the master when I entered the flat all stricken and pale-faced with terror.

"Sir?" He inquired softly. The unmistakable gleam of brotherly concern shone in his eyes as he took in my zombie-esque demeanor.

I released my litany of horror crouched in the most germane phrasing: "Guh—uh- Jeeves—I—with the—and she—then he—buh, how d'you- with the, and you know—fwuh- oh, golly, Jeeves, get me a drink!"

You've doubtlessly read of those evangelical folks in America who bellow "WALK!" at some poor fellow who's always used a cane before, and the chap has no choice but to acquiesce, led forward by the fanatic's hand. Well, that's how it felt as Jeeves led me across the room to the armchair: like my legs had plum forgotten how to work, and had decided this walking business was a taxing thing no right-thinking individual should take part in, and Jeeves was my gentle guide to salvation. As he settled me down and went about providing me with drink and a sympathetic ear, I finally managed to articulate more clearly, properly fleshing out the characters, settings, and plot turns from recent events.

"Most distressing, sir," came his heartfelt reply. Just to show you how concerned he was that his bright young employer was in mortal danger, I think I espied an actual frown on his face, a furrow in that normally clear brow.

However, Jeeves is one of those rare souls who, when deeply concerned about an issue, does not simply stare ahead with a look of dumb befuddlement on his face as I tend to. He instead uses that concern to step back and actually _think _of a solution_. _I felt better already, knowing Jeeves was apprised of my sorry tale and was "on the case," as Sir A. C. Doyle might have put it.

But thinking of that word "think" gave me the shivers anew. That was the very word Christine Daae had used in reference to how she planned resolving her feelings for me. And not only my bachelorhood but my very life was in the balance now.

"Should I go to the police, Jeeves, or whatever they call them here...the John's Arms, I think?"

"_Gendarmes_, sir."

"Oh? Makes more sense, I suppose. Wouldn't sit well with the populace to have English words thrown in to the police force, if you look at the issue squarely. Still, think I should give them a holler?"

"I would not advise it, sir. Monsieur de Chagny has already tried that approach with little success. The presiding officers felt Monsieur de Chagny..._suffering from an overactive imagination_ when they heard his tale."

"Pegged him for a loony, eh?"

"I would not express it in those particular terms, but I am afraid that was the general consensus, sir."

"Oh, Jeeves," I moaned miserably as my hope for lawful shelter turned around and gave me the raspberry. "What's to become of this sorry bloke Bertram Wilberforce Wooster when all is said and done?" And my hand fell wearily atop the phonograph to my right.

Which was odd, when you think about it. There hadn't been a phonograph there before.

I mimicked Jeeves's frown and tackled this subject square in the beezer. "Um, I say, Jeeves, not to trouble you or anything, what with recent developments and whatnot, but could you maybe inform me how this little bijou made its way"—

I stopped mid-sentence, mouth open in—well, maybe not anything as drastic as shock, but perhaps a shyer, more mealy-mouthed third cousin-once-removed from shock.

There, before me, was something I never thought I'd see, or even contemplated seeing.

Jeeves was sitting at the piano bench, twirling an Honest-to-Whatsit lasso as he listened to me, as if he were about to audition for Buffalo Bill's Wild West revue.

"Jeeves!" I cried out.

"Sir?" His properly subdued expression made a rather ugly juxtaposition to his hand expertly widening and tightening the lasso, as if preparing to hurl it out and capture a cow or giggling maiden from the audience.

"I-I-now, what in blazes"—I jumped about two feet in the air from my seat, interrupted once more in the line of questioning. The culprit this time was the door buzzer. I mean, I know buzzing a door's button is the usual task people undertake when visiting another's home. But I was rather skittish on this particular night, not taking all facts in rightly.

"Good lord, Jeeves. Who do you think that could be?"

He placed the lasso on the piano and started crossing over to the door.

"Ostensibly Monsieur de Chagny and Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, sir."

I jumped maybe two-and-a-half or three feet this time, landing on my feet. "What!"

"They sent a note shortly before you arrived, sir, relaying their intentions to pay you a call."

I stood like a gutted scarecrow, useless arms flapping at my sides. I hissed at Jeeves, "Well, I'm not going to bally well see them right now! For all I know, their girls told them all! Now Raoul's here to strangle me with that blasted lasso of yours, and Henri's here to kick my corpse afterwards, all for bunging up their love lives! I won't see them! I won't!"

"It would appear unavoidable, sir."

"Oh, it would, would it? I'll show you." And I dove with intrepid gusto behind the sofa for the duration.

Unshakable as ever, Jeeves proceeded with the business at hand and let in those two nobly born scourges.

Henri de Castelot-Barbezac was one of those good-looking, broad-shouldered coves you read of in novels about robber barons and pirate kings. He was nearly ten years older than Raoul and I, and was equally good friends with Raoul as he was with Raoul's brother Philippe, a good twenty years older than us. I wouldn't say Henri is an exact physical replica of Meg as Raoul is to Christine, but there were still some striking similarities between the baron and the ballerina.

Like Meg, Henri was a swarthy guy, all tanned face and thin raven 'stache, with slicked back hair that competed with his fiancée for shininess. However, his eyes were of a distinct green shade, and the contrast between their emerald hue and his darker coloring gave him a marked exotic edge. This inspired many a lady around the opera house to giggle and coo in his presence, much to Meg's chagrin. He never took the girls seriously, though, merely winking at them saucily to ruffle his betrothed's feathers. For also like his beloved hoofer, he was of a merrier, wickeder disposition than the dreamy Raoul, seldom taking much of anything very seriously.

He therefore entered my flat laughing huskily, a common habit. This, of course, I detected without any visual aids, as I was lying on the floor hidden from human eyes.

"Well, well, well, Jeeves. Where's that dismal picture of today's younger generation all mothers mourn? I've quite a bone to pick with this fellow."

"Yes, I'd like to see Bertie, too," Raoul added. While his voice wasn't as Boomps-a-Daisy as his companion's, I was at least pleased there wasn't any violent or sinister undertone to his words. Merely his usual subscription of quiet melancholy and dazed sobriety. Bertram was in the clear so far.

Ever faithful to his post, Jeeves biffed the truth. "I am afraid Mr. Wooster is not in, gentlemen."

"When's the silly ass going to show, Jeeves?" Questioned Henri.

"I cannot say, sir. Not for a good many hours yet, I should think."

"Oh," Raoul sighed disappointedly. If Christine hadn't unloaded her heart to him concerning her budding feelings for me, I could still discern he had something in mind to tell me. Good chums as we were, I couldn't imagine Raoul crestfallen by simply not being able to see me or swap what-ho's. "That's disappointing, Jeeves. I wanted to know why he left Christine alone at the opera tonight. She was very nervous just now when I called on her in her dressing room to bid her goodnight. She seemed very distracted."

Heavy strides vibrated against my ear, and the sloshing of liquid alerted me to Henri helping himself to a drink at the bar. "Oh, cheer up, Raoul," he said in his deep, careless baritone. "Bertie's probably just hiding from my blushing bride." He chuckled warmly. "I don't know if you know, Jeeves, but Meg's just about fit to be tied."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed, yes. Your employer, with his mighty intellect over-brimming with bright ideas, accidentally spilled out our plans for elopement to that ghastly mother of Meg's."

"That is most unfortunate, sir."

"Oh, I know it'll get worked out in the long run. By god, I'll marry that squirt if it's the last thing I'll do," he declared with a hard note of passion in his usually light-hearted voice. He bally well would, too. Like Raoul had been planning to do before encountering the Daae again, this cove actually _had_ sailed the seven seas, and used to be some sort of captain before ascending to his title, and was an experienced and well-spoken of boxer, to boot. He knew how to get what he wanted, whether in love, in the ring, or on the roulette tables.

"No, we'll marry. Really what's most unfortunate is the position poor Bertie's in. I'm of a stout constitution, but even I gang-way when Meg's in a fury. So, I merely popped in to warn him. Tell him to lie low, Jeeves. Don't let him anywhere near the opera house. That's one of the repercussions of Meg's mater finding out. The glorified box-keeper's not letting the guppy outside the opera's premises, not while my ignoble visage is still bopping about Paris, leading her tender heart astray. So Bertie's safe here. But the minute he crosses the opera's threshold, 'he's sunk,' if I may paraphrase a timid young first mate once under my command, who passed out cold after informing me there was a small leak in the ship's kitchen."

"But what about Christine?" Raoul asked impatiently. I had an odd mental image of him bouncing up-and-down on the balls of his feet, like my sister used to do when we were children as she complained to our nurse that I had spilled ice cream all over her new pinafore. "He can't abandon her now!"

Jeeves cleared his throat. "If you do not mind my saying so, Monsieur, I think you would be safe in renewing your own attentions to her. I believe the daroga and I can manage…_certain affairs_ by ourselves. We will let you know when you are needed again."

He was obviously speaking of that dashed forbidden-to-anyone-but-precious-Raoul's-ears topic, and Henri chuckled heartily again. "Ah, I see. Going through that nasty Phantom business once more, are you? As if I don't hear enough of that from Meg. To think such a level-headed fellow as myself would end up falling completely and madly in love with such a superstitious nut as her." I heard a great gulp and surmised the blighter had finished off his drink. "Well, that's that. Going to stay behind, Raoul, and discuss more of this secret affair with Jeeves, or are you coming along with me?"

Raoul sighed. "Oh, I'll come with you, Henri. Unless you have any other news for me, Jeeves?" He asked in a lower voice.

"No, sir. Events are unfolding as planned. I will contact you directly should they commence unfolding otherwise."

Bidding my man a fond adieu, Raoul and Henri departed. It wasn't until I no longer heard the echoes of Henri's raucous laughter down the hall that I emerged from the dust-bunnies.

I blinked once, then asked, " 'Daroga,' Jeeves? Who and what is that?"

Jeeves answered serenely, "I cannot say, sir."

"Oh, blast it all, Jeeves!" I cried out, and I'm not ashamed to admit I might have stomped my foot indignantly. "I must say, really! I'm about 'fit to be tied' as Meg with all this mysterious nonsense flittering about. When will it all _end, _Jeeves?"

"Hopefully not more than a few weeks, sir, if all goes as planned."

"No way you can get the master out of the soup any quicker than that, Jeeves?"

"I shall give it my utmost consideration, sir."

"Thank you, Jeeves. Don't mean to add to your burdens, but the effort is appreciated. And what must I do in the meantime?"

"I should think it most prudent to adhere to the baron's advice, sir, and 'lie low' for the time being."

* * *

><p>And so I bally well did.<p>

Ironically, if irony's what I'm thinking of, this is the only time I felt free to do whatever I damn well pleased in Paris. Lying low, in this particular circ, meant only avoiding the opera house. And this was hardly a hardship, since I think I've made clear by now my less than stirling assessment of that establishment.

Every other swanky den in Paris beckoned me freely.

Henri and Philippe were my principal companions, what with Raoul pining away after Christine, Christine pining after Raoul and me both, and Meg casting a hex on me from a black corner of the opera's dance studio. I can't say I regretted missing out on the company of such a garrulous trio as they.

Henri was always sporting company, and Philippe, though older and more sophisticated than my normal social set, was also a jolly mate. The Christine topic was taboo with him, the man being a little too old-fashioned in his stance about viscounts eloping with members of the opera populaire.

Still, merry times, it must be reported, were enjoyed by all in my immediate vicinity. I finally started discovering what everyone was on about when they praised Paris to the gills. The smoky nightclubs, lively dance halls, and fashionable restaurants dazed the Wooster senses with elaborate musical routines, cheeky birds, and the richest, most fattening foods that ever made an Englishman weep for joy. All in all, a pipping experience, and as I look back on this time, I believe it was the most fun I had in that city of amour.

Unfortunately, due to events soon taking a nosedive, the few paragraphs above are what I must limit that joyous part of the narrative to. Oh, well, extend your imagination, what? A grand time was had, but the Wooster pen must stray from the bright nightlife of Paris and instead return to the Grand Guignol piece over here to the left.

You see, about maybe a week and a half after I'd been handed my sentence of exile from the opera, Jeeves left me in the drawing room nursing one of his famous restoratives for gentlemen suffering morning heads after a "long night out." Unfortunately, the exact ingredients in this concoction remain a secret of the guild. But believe me, it clears the ringing head instantly, leaving one ready to tackle the day like the heartiest, meatiest rugby player out on the field.

I was breathing in a contented sigh, gazing with marked pleasure out the open window. Sundown was approaching, and for once, the glorious sunset and balmy breeze appropriately matched my rising optimism.

And so of course Jeeves then entered, carrying on a tray the dark storm cloud come to wreak a wintry storm all over proceedings. Well, not literally. It was actually a letter.

"From Miss Christine Daae, sir."

The heart stilled, the blood turned to iced tea in the veins, and the executioner raised high his scythe, waiting only for the thumbs-up from the presiding lawman to let it come down with a thwack. Wooster swallowed and accepted the missive with a clammy hand, trembling like a leaf fighting against a strong gale wind.

"Wish me luck, Jeeves. Let Raoul's fawning attentions and googly eyes have reminded her what a corker he is, and what a sap I am."

"We can only hope as much, sir."

I took a wary gander at her swoopy handwriting.

_Bertie mon ami,_

_I must speak with you at once. Alone. Come to me as soon as you receive this and wait for me in my dressing room. You _must _come, Bertie. It is life and death, and you are the only one I can turn to. Do not fear, dear man. I will not let anything happen to you. But I must, _must _see you. At once!_

_Your miserable friend counting on your assistance,_

_Christine Daae_

"Oh, lord," I groaned, leaning my head back on the window sill.

"I take it by your reaction Miss Daae is disinclined to release you from her fond regard, sir?"

"That's the kicker, Jeeves. The lady's word on that particular subject is mum. She's in some dashed pickle again. Shipwrecks and Greek Choruses wherever she goes, it seems. She wants me to meet with her in her dressing room. It's all very urgent, she says, and insists I come alone. Have you ever in all your years met such an urgent girl, Jeeves? Everything's so dire with this chippie, did you notice?"

"My personal acquaintance with Miss Daae is slight, sir, but I must confess I gleaned a somewhat similar impression."

I folded the letter with firm distaste. "Well, she's not getting me down to that room of hers, Jeeves. She can bally well buzz up here if she wants to."

Jeeves was not as acquiescent on this front as one would have liked in a valet. "I should not advise that, sir. Were I you, I would make haste at once to visit the mademoiselle."

Dismay was the item of the day. "Jeeves! Are you mad, or do you care so little for your master's well being? Meg Giry demands my blood, man! Not to mention that some spectral figure recently whispered a wee word in my ear that mixing company with said Daae wench in his presence would lead to my, how shall I say, oh, death?"

"True, sir," Jeeves readily agreed, but the blighter didn't stop there. "Yet the lady does say the matter is quite urgent."

"Well...yes. Life-threatening, as it were."

"And she can meet you only in her dressing room?"

"Well...more or less, that seems to be the scheme. General impression from the letter, what."

Jeeves straightened and stared me down gently. "Then truly, sir, you cannot deny her your assistance."

I squirmed. "How do you mean?"

He coughed discreetly. "If you remember, sir, the Woosters, as you have so often eloquently expounded, follow the code of the _preux chevalier _where the fairer sex is concerned."

Very unfair of him, I thought, to rub The Code of the Woosters in my face at such a time as this. "Yes, but gosh, Jeeves! I don't think my noble ancestors ever anticipated gloved hands and glowing red eyes and strangled throats thrown into the bargain, did they? And let's not forget the irate ballet dancer aching for a pound of my flesh. If I do this, I _die, _Jeeves! I don't know how long it's been since you consulted a medical journal, but the latest statistics reveal a bloke doesn't recover from death. You're a done deal after that, Jeeves, no way around it."

The man was relentless. "I do not believe you shall die, sir."

"You don't, do you?"

"No, sir."

"Then that great brain of yours has turned to mush and you're a chump."

"As you wish, sir. However, Miss Giry, though of a virulent state of mind presently, is no murderer, and there is always the chance she will be engaged in rehearsal during your visit. And if I may make the conjecture, sir, that as long as you are in the presence of Miss Daae, the other person now threatening you will not hurt you."

I almost teared up. It's downright tragic seeing a figure you've revered and venerated as a paragon of wisdom coming apart at the seams. He looked as steady and together as always, but it doesn't always take a salivating mouth and wandering eye to indicate a chap's mechanism has gone kaput.

"Jeeves, Jeeves, Jeeves," I tried gently coaxing him back to reality. "The fellow in question has assured me with every fiber of his ghostly hand around my neck that my being in Christine's presence is the very thing he _wants_ to kill me for."

"Yes, sir, but you misunderstand me. He would kill you only _after_ the fact. While in her presence, the man would not deign to murder you. He is actively trying to win her favor, and a sensitive young person like Miss Daae would be deterred rather than impressed by witnessing your demise. If you stay by her side, sir, I am sure no harm can befall you."

While I was relieved to find out he wasn't talking out of his hat, I still wasn't satisfied with his arrangement. "Yes, but what about afterwards, Jeeves? To escape that dungeon I have to walk down a long, dark, spindly passage terrifying enough without murderous ghosts hounding my steps. Perfect opportunity to do away with me. I'd take it if I were a madman, you know."

"Then you must convince Miss Daae to escort you out, sir."

"Well, that's not very _preux_, is it, Jeeves? Relying on the lady to protect me seems a little backward to the code."

"Still, sir, the most logical solution."

"Oh, fine, Jeeves. I'll go, if only for the code. If I don't make it out alive, whatever you do, don't let Aunt Agatha arrange the funeral. She'll hire some dog-faced chappie to deliver a drawn-out eulogy about sinners like me suffering sulphur and brimstone in the afterlife. Meanwhile, a chorus of one-hundred year old devotees will back the blighter by singing dirges off-key for approximately fifty hours straight."

"I will do my best to prevent such an outcome, sir."

"Oh, and lay me out in my navy blue suit with the pinstripes, Jeeves, for the viewing in the open coffin."

"Not the navy blue, sir. A formal black suit would be more appropriate for the occasion."

"Nonsense, Jeeves! The navy blue better captures the boisterous spirit I had in life, I think."

"The black suit, sir."

"Dash it, Jeeves, it's my own funeral! I want the navy blue!"

"The black suit, sir."

"Oh, all right, Jeeves, have it your way. You know best."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

><p>One could argue that Lady Luck was on tentative terms with me at this point, but I'll give the dame this, she did smile somewhat kindly on me as I made my way to Christine's dressing room. I had received the girl's letter rather late in the evening, so the opera abode was fairly empty by the time I arrived. While that did little to quell my fears concerning sneaking ghosts pulling a fast one on me, I was reasonably satisfied Meg Giry was not afoot, at least. Whatever fate awaited me tonight, I assumed brutal assault by shrimpy dancer was not on the program.<p>

Christine didn't answer my knock, but the letter had given me the go-ahead, so I barged in. The dratted place was dark as a tomb—forgive the funereal imagery, but keep in mind the setting—so I had myself a time trying to find the gaslight. The woman could have at least left the place lightened for me, if she had any sense of what she was putting me through.

I tripped over what felt like a footstool, collided with a coatrack, and spilled all over her vanity what must have been a battalion of bobby-pins. I am sure that whatever shadow was cast over Christine's life at the moment, she still would have taken me to task for the mess I'd made.

However, she never had the chance. For at that moment, eerie singing suddenly floated out of nowhere into my eardrums, and I stood stone still in the dark with my mouth agape.

"_Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"_

I don't know if you know this about me, but during my schoolboy days at Malvern House, I won the award for Scripture Knowledge. There are detractors out there—with names beginning in Augustus and ending in Fink-Nottle—who insinuate I achieved this through less than honest means. But I assure you, I earned that award fair and square. And as fried as my brain was at this point, and as long as it had been since I'd actually studied the verses, I recognized the above line as one of old Lazarus's spiels about the Redeemer.

The singer—not Christine, I decided, for the tones were distinctly more masculine, so that logically ruled her out—repeated the ditty, sounding even nearer to me than before. The voice was now certainly in the room with me.

"_Come! And believe in me! Whoso believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"_

Well, you know me. You don't suppose I thought clearly at this turn of events, do you? Perhaps if I'd had the fighting spirit of Henri, the strident suspicions of Raoul, or the grey matter of Jeeves, I might have known what to do about this spooky yet angelic serenading. Taken a stand, as it were. But being me, I took the opportunity to scramble desperately for a way out.

I fumbled around me in a great hurry looking for the door, but only succeeded in ramming my shin into the closet, and upsetting what felt like a vase of paper flowers off a small table.

That voice, which had been singing closer and closer to me, suddenly spoke in a caressing murmur not more than a few inches in front of me: "I know you are there. I can hear you moving, Christine."

Unfortunately, this was the moment I remembered I had a functioning voice of my own. Maybe I should have said nothing. In fact, absolutely I should have said nothing. But I didn't. Instead, I said like the fattest of all fatheads, "I'm not Christine."

Figurative ants went shooting up my spine. Those angelic tones had shifted in a heartbeat to the roar of a grizzly bear awoken during hibernation by a pesky yet delicious hiker strayed from the trail.

"WHAT?"

In a flash, quite literally, the light came on.

I covered my eyes to recover from the sudden illumination, and the grizzly-voice snarled, _"What are _you_ doing here?"_

I uncovered the eyeballs.

There, standing by the gaslight, looming by what I judged a good ten or twelve feet above me, was a skeleton-thin figure wrapped in a cloak. Blazing red eyes seared into my mazard, seething with malice.

Oh, and a black mask covered his face, too. Thought that might be worth mentioning.

* * *

><p>AN: For those wondering, I've based Henri de Castelot-Barbezac on a combination Rhett Butler/Omar Sharif model, with a French twist, of course. Why? Because for some odd reason I adore Meg, and felt like rewarding her with a charming hottie. That is all.


	5. Chatting Up OG

At this point, I had come to the same conclusion Jeeves had: the ghost was most certainly not an invention of Claude and Eustace's.

This dark, glowering figure gnashed his teeth behind his mask, continuing to stare me down. He was dressed from head to foot in black—and I mean head quite literally, given that mask I think I just mentioned. He was tall and rail thin, and combined the commanding air of a Roderick Spode with the macabre appearance of a tubercular curate bemoaning his doomed congregation as he leers down at them from the pulpit.

I replied as any village idiot would have:

"Oh, hullo."

A low sort of roar formed in the back of his throat. Or he was clearing it of some phlegm. But, considering the circumstances, I wouldn't have bet the farm on it.

"I will ask you once more," he said in an even tone that nevertheless sent another army of ants parading up and down my spine. "What. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

He strode forward one huge lunge, until he was a few inches from my beak.

I held my breath a little, but not only out of fear: appropriately, seeing as he was a ghost, the man smelled absolutely of something dead.

Still, it wouldn't do to let on a tower of death-stink that you think he smells decidedly deceased, so I meekly replied, searching the recesses of my mind for an adequate answer, "Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. The usual sort of thing." I tried for the airy laugh, but it came out weaker, like a baby's gurgle.

He let out a dark snicker, for all the world reminding me of that Mephistato devil's throaty cackle in _Faust_. "Oh, ho. The 'usual sort of thing,' eh? In Mademoiselle Daae's dressing room?"

"Well—yes. Why not?" My attempt at an easy shrug mustn't have convinced him, for he pressed on in his interrogation.

Fury rising in the blighter's voice, he proclaimed, "I think not. I think you are here for the basest of reasons—_to spy on her, the woman you covet!"_

Now, I could have very well pointed out that he himself was there for that very reason, but for one thing or another, that didn't occur to me at that moment. Instead I hastened to explain myself.

"No, no!"

"Yesssss!" He hissed, serpentine again. He lunged forward, causing me to lunge backward. "Yes, and perhaps, perhaps"- he raised a skeletal finger, pointing condemningly at Bertram. "Ah-HAH! _You _are the one who stole my music! And you're hiding it _here!" _His voice bally well rang out with malice.

"Eh?" I asked, honestly perplexed. "What's that about your music?"

"Don't be coy with me, Wooster!" He growled. "You are just the kind of base worm to sully my masterpiece by touching it with your unworthy hands! Where do you have it hidden? Is it here? _Tell me!" _He clutched my jacket collar and gave me a good shake.

I didn't have time to reflect on it whilst in his grasp, but it occurs to me now that almost no matter what circumstance I find myself in, some ghastly party always leaps heartily to the erroneous—if erroneous is the baby I want—conclusion that I'm only mucking about the premises with the sole purpose in mind of pinching something. Sir Watkyn Bassett and Roderick Spode, for example, always assumed I came to Totleigh Towers to steal one of Bassett's odd little thinamajigs that he collected, doubtlessly so I could take it to my uncle Tom Travers, a rival collector of loony objets d'art I wouldn't be caught dead in a ditch with. Sir Roderick Glossup, too, was under the impression I had nothing better to do with my time than traipse about the metropolis stealing top hats off the bald heads of nerve specialists. The curse of the even-tempered dandy to serve as the dumping ground for the suspicious aristocracy, I guess.

Anyway, like I said, such reflection escaped me at this plot point, but I protested my innocence regardless, twitching as I was in the large dead hands of my assailant.

"Now, look here, old soul. I haven't the slightest clue what you're on about. I'll admit that back in the day, during Boat Race Night when my heart was younger and more susceptible than even now- 'a passionate light such for his spirit was fit' was how Jeeves put it once, but I don't think it was one of his own—I'll admit I'd parlay in policeman helmet pinching and dropping the occasional _bleu mange_ on the bishop of Woolwich, but I am of a steadier and wiser constitution now. Believe me, Phantom old fruit, there are few pastimes that sound more grotesque to the dapper young gentleman before you than stealing someone's tunes. Not my style, I doth proclaim."

My smooth oration must have convinced him, for he reluctantly released me, saying with the verbal equivalent of a sneer, "Yes, you are far too much of a silly ass to pull off anything like that. It must have been the daroga's doing, or de Chagny's while you courted Christine."

Despite the terror still clutching my insides, I felt a bit insulted that he deemed me too stupid to pull off a heist he assumed Raoul could manage. "Now, see here. Raoul's a good egg, but a mastermind thief, I must shout out nay. Though many years have passed, I've no doubt if you casually mention the words 'jar of jam' within his earshot, you'll notice a sudden convulsion wrack his wiry frame, his eyes bulging with anxiety as memory comes crashing down"-

"SILENCE!" The figure roared, red eyes glowing, cape twirling as he rounded on me.

"Right." No position to argue. Didn't want a fuss.

Those distinct eyes slit at me unfavorably, and he hissed, "I know why you disparage de Chagny so. You wish to gain Christine for yourself, and are working to poison her affections against both him and me!"

"Oh, good lord, not this again!"

"You dare deny it, you sniveling worm?"

Well, frightening as the posish I found myself in was, I had about reached the limits to my stalwart patience. So I snapped, "Yes, by Jove, that's precisely what I dare to do. I've not the slightest inclination, no matter where her heart lies at the moment, to hitch myself for better or for worse to this pipsqueak Christine Daae."

He reeled back as if struck. "What?"

"What nothing. It's the truth. I neither adore, worship, nor even at this point, I'm sad to say, barely tolerate the demanding, poetical loon. The only reason I buzzed about her so much in the first place was as a favor to Raoul. She was all right at first, but it's not my fault she had to go and turn squashy on me! Now it's to Hell with all Swedish sopranos, say I! They'll only land you in the soup double-time, till you're nose to mask with the grim reaper of the opera, your life bloody well on the line. And _that _is my esteemed opinion of Mademoiselle Christine Daae, and you can take it or lump it as you please."

I must admit to a slight smugness on my part at the sight before me of the ghost, apparently stymied by my staunch line of reasoning, staring at me with mouth agape. He was standing somewhat limp and gangling, like a scarecrow picked apart by the very birds he was supposed to shoo away. In a weak sort of monotone he asked, "You...you don't love her?"

"That's the message I've been trying to get across, yes."

He shook his head slowly. "Not at all?"

"Not one whiff."

"But...but she loves you."

"Don't remind me."

He sat down heavily in a chair close to the mirror, looking like a deflated balloon, staring at the ground, trying to process it all.

Meanwhile, in sharp contra-distinction, I felt like the hottest of all hot air balloons—there, without the help of Jeeves or anyone else, I had extracted myself from the soup! Now that O.G. knew the score—that Bertram Wilberforce Wooster would do all in his power to escape matrimonial bliss with Christine Whatever-Her-Middle-Name-Is Daae- he'd surely suspend the death sentence. After all, I was one less contestant for her hand, what?

It was as if you had laid down all your earnings on a certain horse at Kempton Park, when all the favorites point instead to Leapin' Lucy. Suddenly, this same Leapin' Lucy declares she has no taste for this racing biz, and is retiring to the country to take up gardening, leaving your horse the favorite at the ticket stands once more.

In less muddled words, I was sure that once P.T.O. let the whole thing process, he'd—well, he didn't strike me as the caper-cutting type, but you never know. I thought it would buck him up, in other words.

Not increase his blood lust.

But the signs were unmistakable. He suddenly started chugging like a furnace, hunched over in his chair, muttering, "She...she came to you...this angel...this goddess...this adorable, sweet, holy creature...more fay than human...more divine than any deity...she came to you and offered you her _love..._and you...you..._you...REJECT IT?"_

In a flash, as the dramatists say, he was on his feet again, harsh voice risen to an octave not suitable for human ears. The fists were clenched in angry balls, the eyes practically popping out of the mask_._

Seeing my revelation had not had the desired effect, I hastened to smooth the ripple.

"Well, I"-

"_You! _You who do not deserve to breathe the same air...to walk in her shadow, see the same light...you _throw away her heart like a soiled handkerchief?"_

"Oh, it's not quite like"-

"Call her a _pipsqueak?"_

"I'll own that was a bit harsh. What I meant was"-

"You...you, you...you _worm! _You unappreciative cur! You soulless, foppish, useless, brainless..._ass!"_

"That's my name, don't wear it out!" I said jauntily, grasping at the possibility a light joke might soften Old Man Winter's heart.

It did not. A low, twisted growl formed in his throat. Unless, again, all that shouting had caused more phlegm to form.

He shook his head, sick contempt in those crimson orbs. "To think...to think that _I...ERIK..._the greatest musical genius who ever lived...that I should be denied that most precious of all treasures—her love!- while you, less human than a parsnip, less intelligent than a boll weevil, should earn that love and then value it not at all...but to view it instead as a _nuisance!" _

"Oh, your name's Erik, is it? Funny, that. Never thought about ghosts as having names. Still, why not? One can't like being referred to as, 'Ahoy there, Opera Ghost!' Or 'What-ho, Phantom, how's tricks?' So why not Erik?"

"_SILENCE!"_

"Right. Sorry. Go on."

He massaged his temples beneath his mask, and a low, mourning moan escaped him. "I am no ghost. No phantom. I am a man."

"Really?" I asked a bit dubiously, taking into account his less than lifelike aroma and appearance.

"Yes, made of the same weak flesh and blood as even you, Wooster. But unlike you, I can never hope to gain a woman's love...never hope to have any woman willingly place her hand in mine...never feel her soft lips touch my own...never see a tender smile greet me each morning, as I'm not for sunlight or love..." His whole frame shuddered and an even more sorrowful wail filled the room as he cradled his head in his hands.

He reminded me quite a bit of that _Scream _painting my former fiancee Lady Florence Craye once made me view in some museum, in an effort toward improving my mind. Many of my fiancees have tried that trick—improving my mind, that is- with little success, though that ghoulish pic did stick with me, particularly now.

I tried to cheer the fellow a little. "Now, now. You'd be surprised who a woman can love. Why, most of my peers are hitched or are about to be, and a great deal of them are even more mentally and physically negligible than I."

His teeth gnashed anew as he answered, "Not like me." He pointed a shaking finger at his head. "This...this face...this face is too horrible for words, a true, decaying dead thing."

"Gussie Fink-Nottle looks like a halibut. He's married to Emerald Stoker. Of course, she looks like a Pekinese..."

He gave another of his dark snickers. "Halibut, eh? How I wish I could be as handsome as that. No, Wooster. You will not calm my vengeance with your weak attempt at empathy." The malice was back in his glare as he stood and approached me with slow steps.

I swallowed. "We're back on killing me, are we?"

A slow nod was my only answer as he snaked toward me.

"Now—now- see here"-

"No," he snarled, and I was reminded once again of Bartholomew, the Aberdeen Terrier with Decided Opinions. "I will not have my Christine toyed with. You _must _die." So saying, the blighter lifted his hand in the air, and flicked his wrist like a Master of Ceremonies at a music hall, who beckons the stagehands to throw down his straw hat from the rafters during the big finale.

I looked up with just enough time to see a trapdoor open above me, releasing a noose which hurtled down at light speed toward You-Know-Who.

I yelped an admirable "GAH!" just as the noose fell over me-

-and bypassed my neck entirely, the loop having increased in circumference, and instead cinched itself about my waist, pinning my arms to my sides, lifting me a good two of three feet above the ground, legs more or less flailing.

I was certainly pleased to find myself still a member on the team of the living, mind you. But I'll own to a little befuddlement. "Eh?" I asked.

My puzzlement was matched by my companion, though he was much less mild in his expression of it. "WHAT?" He boomed. I couldn't read his expression, of course, thanks to the mask, but I could detect bulging red eyes and an open mouth of disappointed fury. "How in blazes"-

He was about to step forward and assess the situation personally, when another noose came down right above him, which likewise looped around his frame, and cinched him too about the waist, lifting him to my position mid-air.

While his words had left me doubtful, I must say watching a man, no matter how masked and imperious, cuss up a storm and wriggle like the devil, while he kicks his legs about him as he's suspended by a malfunctioning lasso, does much to convince the viewer the man before him is not a ghost, but an imperfect human being like the rest of us.

We were now on equal footing (not literally, of course, but figuratively). After a few moments of wordlessly and dumbly swinging back and forth by our waistlines, I addressed him.

"Well, well, well. Safe to say this wasn't part of the plan, what?"

His efforts to free himself coming to naught, Erik had taken to making some kind of gurgling noise as he bared his yellow teeth. Really, the resemblance to Bartholomew was uncanny.

"Shut up, Wooster," he ordered.

He was still a commanding chappie, so I limited my reply to an offended sniff. However, I'm never one for letting an extended silence pass without making another go at conversation, so I pressed on.

"Surely we can't swing here all day. I mean, I suppose we can. What's stopping us? But really, what a life to lead. It's a bit difficult to make something of oneself from this position, certainly you must concede. Not that I'm particularly planning on making something of myself, but you know what I mean. After all, I have sights I want to see, shows I'd like to attend, races to bet a few bob on. I'm not for this stationary swinging, that much I know. What I'm trying to say is," I said, getting to the heart of the matter, "What are we to do about it? What went wrong with the mechanism? Think, Erik, old shoe—all right if I call you that? Erik, I mean? I can't imagine anyone taking offense at 'old shoe,' of course—how did this what-have-you take place?"

"Sabotage," he growled. For someone passing himself off as an angel to an ingenue, he certainly never spoke in dulcet tones to me. More like a caveman crossed with a Siberian tiger denied his luncheon coolie.

"You sure?"

"Yes, of course, you ass! I never planted _this-_-" here he made a wild, angry gesture with his chin to indicate his noose- "over my head! Someone else did!"

"Rum."

Another few moments of silence passed, filled with his fuming and the occasional cursory attempts to free himself.

At last I threw out the crucial query. "So, who do you think it could be? The saboteur, I mean?"

"How the deuce am I to know?" He snapped.

"Well, excuse me, but are you or are you not the Phantom? Thought it was your bally well _modus operandi _to know everything that went on round here." Not my most polite response, but this character refused to get friendly. I had to be firm and throw out vocabulary I'd picked up from Jeeves to let him know I meant business.

"Of course I know what goes on in my Opera House! What I meant was how am I supposed to know who the culprit is out of all those miscreants yearning for my entrapment? There are many: the daroga, Raoul, even _you _perhaps..." He silenced my protestations. "Oh, don't worry, you idiot. I ruled you out right away." He gave an ugly sort of laugh. "As if your feeble capabilities could come up with something like this."

"Mmm, quite." I shifted- as much as I could- as I thought of something. "Um, if you don't mind my asking, why did you come here tonight?"

"Eh?" He asked irritably, as if I were a mosquito buzzing around his face.

"You thought Christine would be here, right? You called me her name before, if you recall, during that charming little mix-up."

He stewed a bit before answering- reluctant, I suppose, to speak of her in my unworthy presence. "I...I received a letter from her. She wished to speak to me. I hastened here at once."

"How did she send the letter?"

"_That's none of your concern. _My Christine has ways to reach me that I have shown her."

"...Ah. Hm."

He glanced at me suspiciously. "What, pray tell, is on your miserable excuse for a mind?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing...except I'm here because _I _received a letter from Christine, telling me to meet her here. Earth shattering importance, and all that."

"So?"

I thought over my words carefully. A thought _had _occurred to me, believe it or not, but one I'd have to tip-toe around cautiously. I remembered his most recent outburst when I painted Christine in a less than favorable light, and while he was rather literally tied-up at the moment, I was in no mind to trigger that temper of his again.

I ruminated a bit before answering. "Well...uh...see here...we both received letters from her, instructing us to meet her in this room. Surely the lassie would know we'd inevitably knock heads, so..."

"So _what?"_

"So...er...maybe it was her?"

"It was her _what?"_

"Her who, you know, did this. Trapped us, as it were." Suspended as I was, I found it a little difficult to shrug. But to undercut the harshness of my accusation, I gave it an honest try.

Unnecessary. The lout flew into a rage anyways. "You accuse my sweet and innocent Christine of _this?"_

"...Rather."

"You dunderheaded...miserable..." 'There are no words,' I thought he was going to say next, but instead he chose another track, turning sarcastic and nasty. "And tell me, Monsieur Holmes, how do you deduce the mademoiselle's motivation in doing thus? Hm? What's the lady's ultimate goal?"

"Ooh, hadn't thought about that. Maybe she figured we'd work out our differences this way? Haven't you ever seen those drawing-room comedies where disagreeing parties, usually the hero and heroine, are locked into a closet by their friends, in hopes that the enforced close proximity would make the two mend hearts?"

"HAH!" was his rather dismissive response.

"Well, you might have a point there. A bit far-fetched. After all, we're not the hero or heroine, are we? I'd say Raoul and Christine are."

"SHUT UP!"

"Oh, right, sorry. Not the most tactful observation."

A few more moments of swinging silence.

I cleared the throat again, because really, I was getting sort of dizzy as I rocked to-and-fro, and wanted to get to the bottom of this monkey b. "If it isn't Christine"-

"It's _not _Christine," he interrupted irritably. "Don't even think it. She does not have the cunning or the malevolence. Not my angel. Nor would she even know how to orchestrate such a stunt even if she _did_ have those qualities. It is not, I tell you, Wooster, not her!"

"_Non," _a voice piped up, far more piquant and chirpy than either of ours. _"It was moi."_

"Oi!" I called out.

There, standing triumphantly with hands on hips in the doorway, surveying her handiwork with the utmost satisfaction, and looking even tinier than usual given our vantage point up in the air, was Little Meg Giry.


	6. Meg's Ultimatum

I doubt if anyone's masculine pride _wouldn't _be wounded in our position, dangling as we were at the mercy of a petite girl who wore a frilly white tutu and pointe shoes.

Erik certainly wasn't shy in voicing his objection.

"What in blazes are _you _doing here, young Giry?"

Her cheeky smirk evaporated at this harsh query. She stood up a bit on her tiptoes and leaned forward, a doe-eyed look of frank curiosity etched on her little face as she gazed at the infamous Opera Ghost—a breathless sort of expression that suited her, I think.

"_Mon Dieu," _she panted in excitement. "_L'fantome!" _And here she emitted a squealing giggle, clapping her hands rapidly. "Oh, won't Cecile and La Sorelli be pink in head when I tell them I meet Monsieur Opera Ghost! Ooh, can't wait!"

"You won't be telling them anything, Little Giry, until you let us down!" Erik warned, and I could almost discern the threatening cloud hovering over his stern brow.

Immediately she checked her youthful vigor and shook her head like a scolding schoolmarm, drawing her cheeks in disdainfully—a look that _did not _suit her, as it emphasized the pinched quality to her features.

"No," she chirped decidedly. "I have couple stipulimations foremost. One"—

"Now, now, wait a minute!" I chimed in. "I think I missed a chapter, or at least a paragraph or two. Are you telling us _you're _behind all this, Meg?" I would have gestured to let her know I referred to our floating midair by a lasso, but my hands were presently bound at my sides, so I trusted she'd follow my train of thought.

She did in spades. "I am," she declared with not a little self-gratification.

"P'chaw!" Erik cried out. "It's almost less possible than Wooster coming up with such a stunt. Nonsense."

" 'P'chaw' yourself!" She countered smartly, recent awe-struckness in Erik's presence gone at his offensive implications concerning her intellect. "I much smarter than you think, Monsieur. _J'ai mes voies._ " And she wrinkled her little nose at him.

Erik shook his masked head, presumably dumbfounded. "But—but how"—

"Never mind," she said in a clipped tone. "Pertinent problem is how you get down. I tell you." She cleared her reedy throat, and proceeded to speak carefully, in more connected English.

"I been—_I have _been practicing my English for many weeks now in preparation for this confontra—confurn—_confrontation _with you two ninnynoodles. Let's see how I do, eh? As you know, I am one—_the _one who wrote you those letters you thought were from Christine."

"_You?" _Erik asked aghast. He was a little slow on the uptake, I thought. Even _I_ had more or less figured that one out, and was prepared to move on. I guess old O.G. was having a hard time reconciling this mastermind forger with the gossipy little kid he'd known since she was a wee thing pattering about in toe shoes.

"_Oui, moi." _She coughed and then corrected herself. "_Yes, me_. I'm a girl of many talents." She slinked toward the Phantom, a sly look on her dark features. "Which you've always known, eh, Monsieur Phantom?"

"What are you talking about?" He groused.

"I'll tell you." Her astonishing black-violet eyes snapped fire as she fumed, "You've _always _known I could dance, and dance quite well at that. I always been—_I've _always been the most talented dancer in my line, true?"

He sighed in exasperation at this apparently inexplicable cross-examination. "I-I don't know, why are you wasting my time"—

"Yes, you've always known that. And yet you let Maman believe you only promoted me to please her, so she'd do more for you. You deny it?"

Frightening a figure as Erik cut, I must say that if I were in his ghostly shoes, I'd have shrunk back at the quivering little fury calling itself Meg Giry here. Her face flushed red beneath its olive tone, and her bright, dark eyes zeroed in on him through angry slits. "Do you?"

Erik shook his head again, impatience written in his jerky movements. "Oh, all right, I don't deny it. What of it? You're La Sorelli's understudy now, so why do you care how it came about? Is this the thanks I get, you little dormouse? Trapping me by my own noose after how far I let you rise?"

She gave her own fair imitation of Mephistantiles's ominous laugh. "Oh, that's not _all _you've done for me. Goodness, no." She paced in agitation, and witnessing this motion combined with the rocking rope I was entwined in gave me a feeling not unlike acute seasickness. "No, you had to go a step further. You had to promise Maman I'd be an _empress _someday, by golly! How very _kind _of you, Monsieur, to offer me such a prosperous match. Except for one thing." She pivoted on her heels and stared him down again, thin voice rising to a sharp bark. "How on Earth am I supposed to find myself an emperor to marry, huh? You never thought _that _through, did you?"

Erik groaned. "Good lord, child! How was I supposed to know your mother would take me so literally…?"

"You _counted_ on her naiveté, you brute! All you cared about was securing your stupid seat in that dumb box that's just as good as any other box in the theater! Never mind that you raised my poor mother's hopes for her only child so high that nothing short of a nonexistent emperor could satisfy them! You didn't care at all how it would affect me and my ability to find someone she would approve of, did you?"

I must say her English _had _improved in the few short weeks she's been rehearsing.

"You see, monsieur, not all of us have the luxury to live out our lives in an underground palace! Some of us have to work for a living. And if you're a girl, _comme moi, _eventually you have to settle down with a nice man or you won't have a roof above your head! One can't dance forever. And so when you luck out and find someone you actually love, and who's more than able to provide for you, like I found in Henri, well, you should be all set! Who could ask for more? Except when you _are _me, what you have is a mother who's been bedeviled by an operatic sorcerer who's poisoned her mind against anyone _not an emperor, _so you find yourself without a bloody leg to stand on!"

Her nostrils flared and her chest heaved. She was rather a dish, really. Frightening, but a dish.

I can't say I actually saw steam coming out of her ears, but I won't rule out Erik's. "Listen, you impudent brat, I"—

"No, I will not listen." So saying, she whipped around to confront Yours Truly. "None of this would have been so much of a problem, Burr-tee, if Henri and I had succeeded in eloping. Maman would have had no choice but to accept us after awhile."

Irate as Erik had been, at least he had more composure than I when given the third-degree by Little M. But I'd challenge any of you to maintain a strong disposition while those sloe eyes stared daggers in you. I should have bethought myself of the Spartans and their stiff upper lips, as they stoically trained for battle with wooden horses or whatever it was. But then again, I doubt the Spartans ever had to contend with five feet and two inches of balletic mayhem in their midsts, now did they?

"Well—yes, that's true, isn't it? Ha-ha."

The 'ha-ha' was a sizable miscalculation on my part. "I'll 'ha-ha' you, you sap! You had to open your big blab and"—

"Oh, now, come, pet," I tried honeying her. "It was all a big misunderstanding. I had no idea she was your mother"—

"Didn't I tell you she worked in Box Five?"

"Well—yes, as a matter of fact, you did. But I wasn't really thinking at that moment, and"—

She shook her head, more disappointed than angry. "And that's just it. You don't ever _think, _Burr-tee."

"...Nope. Can't say I do."

I felt a glimmer of hope she might yet be merciful when I saw her swallow a giggle in response. "Oh, you _petit homme __stupide_. I'm not _so _angry with you, anymore. You can't help saying dumb things, can you?"

"No, not really," I agreed companionably. "I've tried, mind you, but dumb things tumble out of my mouth like feathers floating on a summer breeze. Inescapable, in other words."

"_If you don't mind," _Erik cut in icily, "I'd like to know what mademoiselle intends to do with us?"

"Very well," Meg assented. "I give you an ultimomum…no, that's not it…an ultinatium…oh, Burr-tee, dear, you know what I'm trying to say?"

"Ultimatum, old thing?"

"Oui, that's the one! Ultimatum!" She brightened considerably. "Like it or not, it's the fault of you two I'm so miserable right now and I can't see my Henri. So, here it is: I'm going away for two hours to practice my steps and help Maman arrange _your _box, Monsieur Phantom—another punishment she's doling out for my seeing Henri behind her back. When I return, you both will have found a way for me to marry Henri with Maman's approval." She nodded with perfect simplicity. "And then I shall cut you down from the ropes!"

"And if we don't?" Erik asked testily. "You'll keep us up here till we rot and die?"

"Can't say I'm all for that, Meggie," I put in.

"Of course not!" Meg cried aghast. "What sort of monster do you take me for? I only did this so you'd sit still and listen."

"Oh, well, that's good," I said, exhaling thankfully.

"No, I intend to blackmail you."

I started as Erik laughed. "Ho ho, that's rich! Little Meg Giry is going to blackmail _me_, Erik! The Phantom of the Opera! Ha, ha"—

"Yes, by telling Christine you've been hanging around her dressing room again."

The laughter died on his lips and even his rope stopped swinging.

"…What's that?"

She inspected her nails carelessly. "What was it I overheard Christine whisper to the viscount the other day? Ah, yes: 'You know, Raoul, Erik always keeps his promises. And he promised never to come to my dressing room again without my leave. That's why I must keep _my_ promises to him.'" Meg shot him a crafty look under fluttery lashes. "Gee, if she found out you don't keep _this_ promise, and that I've seen you here with my very own eyes"—

"But it's your fault I came here! I thought you were Christine!"

"Why? Because of…" She peeked into his cloak pocket and grabbed a piece of paper that was peeking out. "…This note?" She tore it in two.

"Hey!" He yelled out vengefully.

"Now there is no note. And if you came here by yourself, without her leave, well, who's to say she'll feel so obliged to do anything she promised _you_, eh?"

He started making Bartholomew noises again.

She then turned back to me, tilting her head. "As for _you, _Burr-tee."

"Oh, you've remembered me, have you?" I asked, cold sweat already forming at the back of my neck.

"Mm-hm," she nodded pleasantly. "As you can tell by these letters, I am quite good at forging."

"About the best I've ever seen, really." It's never unwise to flatter the blackmailing party, I've learned.

"Thank you. And I've also been practicing _your _handwriting during all the hours I've been trapped within these walls."

I did not like the sound of this. "…Oh?"

"Oh indeed. And what was the name of that girl you're supposed to be engaged to right now? Miss Madeline Bassett, was it?"

I straightened, which was no easy feat in that lasso. "Meg, you wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't what, _mon ami?" _

"Wouldn't…you know…write her to let her know where I am, and that I'm passionately in love with her, or some such drivel?"

"Oh, no, Monsieur," she said gravely. "I would never lie to a poor girl like that."

The lump in my throat dissipated somewhat. "Oh, right. That's good."

"No, I'd tell the truth!"

"…How's that?"

She bit her lower lip, thinking. "Let's see, what did you tell me you thought she was? Oh, that's right, she's a 'lame-brained sop of the first degree,' a 'wishy-washy pill,' a 'baby-talker,' a"—

"Now, hold on, Meg"—

"…'A perfect nitwit who hasn't the sense God gave a chickadee to see that I'm only ever around her to make sure she's safely engaged to a man who _isn't _me.' Those were the words, weren't they?"

Erik might not have been a ghost, but I'm sure if you saw my pallor just then, you'd have pegged me for one of the undead. I swallowed against a dry throat. "Meg…you mustn't…you _wouldn't, _old thing…."

She shrugged. "Well? You don't _want _to marry her, do you? It'd really be a favor, I thought."

"But…but…."

"But?"

"But, you know. It might hurt her feelings."

"So?"

"And Roderick Spode might kill me."

"Ah." She smiled one of her dazzling grins, which at this point only made me ill with foreboding. "Then you should take care I _don't _write that letter." She shot another glance to Erik before splitting her attention between the both of us. "Well, gents, there are your instructions. I'll be back in two hours." She pranced to the door before turning back. "What is it you always say, Burr-tee? Oh, that's right: tinkerty tonk!" And she was out the door.

And I suppose she meant that to sting.

The creaking ropes were the only sound for a space, along with the terrier-like growls emanating from a certain masked individual. At last I gave a discreet cough in imitation of Jeeves and attempted breaking the frigid ice that had grown to such uncomfortable proportions that a skating rink could have fit between us.

"Quite a girl, eh?"

"Dastardly, back-stabbing, meddlesome wench," he snarled.

"Yes. She puts me quite in mind of Stiffy Byng, who"—

"Wooster, if you make one more reference to your idiotic friends, I shall set you on fire."

I considered inquiring how he could with his hands tied as they were, but understanding the stress he was under, I thought it prudent to let the threat slide. Always prepared to turn the other cheek is Bertram.

"So, Erik, old bean, any ideas how to satisfy said wench?"

He appeared to stew a little over the options. At last he cried out, "Ah-HAH! We can tell her we have a solution, and when she cuts us down…."

"Yes?"

"…I kill her!"

I grimaced a tad. "Oh, I can't say I'm a supporter of that idea, though I appreciate you're trying. She may have trapped us and all, but, well, have I ever told you about The Code of the Woosters? See, chivalry dictates that above all else, we Woosters must protect the feminine species, against all logical"—

"Oh, never mind, shut up," he interrupted gloomily. "Not even _I_ could kill a girl, no matter how bloody aggravating she is. Especially not one I've known since she was about six years old, and whose mother keeps my box just the way I like it. Maybe I'll simply slip broken glass into Meg's pointe shoes next time I have the chance."

"Still a bit ghastly. I might give it a bit more thought than that." I laughed briefly. "It's funny, though. Well, not funny in a comedic sense, but in a quietly observational sort of way. These French girls are a bit more upfront than English girls, I've noticed. Our girls are far more subtle in their attacks. In the past, when girls like Stif—er, _girls in general"_- despite the circs, I still wasn't wild about the whole 'setting me on fire' idea, so I skipped naming names- "have blackmailed me, I've usually at least had control over my own body at the time. You've got to hand it to Meg: she knows how to capture a chap's attention, and keep him where she wants him."

"What I just don't understand," Erik muttered mostly to himself—I'm sure my presence was irrelevant to him at this point—"is where the chit learned how to manipulate my lasso. Even under the guidance of a master, Little Giry would have had to study weeks and weeks to even _begin_ understanding how to tie the proper knot—why are you gasping, man?"

In truth, I _was_ gasping. For as he spoke, another phantom altogether appeared before me in the form of a memory: a lasso, not unlike the two confining E. and B. at the moment, was being expertly twirled and lengthened in my own bally flat, by one Reginald—

"Jeeves!" I cried out. "It's Jeeves who did it, by Jove!"

"_You called me, sir?"_

Our heads jerked in the direction of the mirror, where, without any conceivable way he could have possibly entered the rummy room, stood that very Jeeves.

* * *

><p>AN: I realize it may sound a bit condescending when Meg says she has to settle down with a guy to get by- scratch that, it sounds _very _condescending- but, frankly, that was the general attitude of the time, what what. Just trying to be truthful to the setting is all.


	7. Of Magic Mirrors, Lassos, and Contracts

As the old saying goes, "Nothing will give a gent the pip faster than a series of plot twists and cliff-hangers." At least, I assume that's an old saying. If it isn't, it should be. For no statement rang truer than at this turn of events, following closely on the heels of previous shocks and follies already noted.

"Well—what—I—Jeeves!" I got out at last.

"Yes, sir?" He asked serenely, eyebrow up that discrete quarter of an inch that makes all the difference. Save for the fact he had by his side the mysterious phonograph from my flat, not to mention that he had entered the room by way of thin air, no one could have taken anything amiss of the situation judging from his devil-may-c attitude.

But we in the know—Erik and me, that is—detected _something_ was fishy in the state of Finland or wherever.

Speaking of Erik, he was demonstrating for Jeeves the former's trademark warm and welcoming demeanor. "Who in blazes are you?" He spat out.

The strong-souled Jeeves failed to even flinch in the face of such spectral wrath, merely replying, "Mr. Wooster's personal gentleman, Monsieur L'Fantome. My name is Jeeves." He shifted his attention back to his master, craning his head slightly back to take me in at midair. "I hope you are not too uncomfortable, sir."

"I bally well _am _too uncomfortable, Jeeves! _Quite_ uncomfortable, in fact. Nay, I dare put forward that I am _dashed _uncomfortable." My form quivered with righteous i. "Jeeves, let's get to the heart of this matter straightaway. Life seems to have given me the raspberry as of late, so I assure you I'm in no mood for small talk or whiling away my time swinging indefinitely as you stand there all sleepy-eyed and stoic. So, one: why and how am I here, swaying to-and-fro like Uncle George on a bender, and what really has dear little Meg Giry got to do with it? And two…Jeeves, I know you have your ways. Although I never seem to notice you enter rooms until you're already at my elbow, you at least appear at an angle that's near an opening from another room. But as you'll kindly take notice, you are nowhere near such an opening"—

He coughed politely. "If I may take the liberty in correcting your perception, sir, I am indeed quite near an opening, the very opening I used to enter this room."

"Stop talking drivel, Jeeves! I tell you, there is no such opening in the near vicin"—

"He means the mirror, you asinine jackass!" Erik interrupted testily. "The _mirror_ is how he got in!"

"…Eh?"

"Behind the mirror is a corridor, a corridor that leads to the bowels of the Opera House, which, incidentally, leads to my lair. There! Are you all satisfied, you vultures, you prying hounds? There! All my secrets—my lair, my mirror, my lasso—gutted out and displayed before your undeserving, ravenous eyes." He turned his face away in disgust.

I blinked. "Oh. All right, then. That explains that, anyways. But what about the other item on my list of inquiries? The whatever-it-was-I-just-asked?"

"Why you are caught in the Phantom's lasso, sir?"

"Right-o, that's the baby. I eagerly await the exposition."

"It is rather a lengthy explanation, sir, but I will avail myself to the task." Clearing his throat with that signature soft cough, Jeeves proceeded to avail.

"You see, sir, the events leading to this current situation dates back to the letter I received from Miss Daae our first day here in Paris, if you recall."

"I bally well do recall, Jeeves," I said, bristling. "It marked the beginning of you, Raoul, and Christine leaving Yours Truly perpetually in the dark." Time had not healed any wounds concerning this matter, and I must confess I once again sniffed markedly.

"I understand your feelings, sir. But rest assured I believe the time has now come to, if I may adopt the modern parlance, 'let you in on' the mystery. In her missive, Miss Daae wrote of her time spent in your home, Monsieur L'Fantome." He bowed respectfully to said Fantome, who cried out disapprovingly.

"Betrayal!"

"Very good, sir. She spoke not only of the corridor behind the mirror, but of the route to your abode through the gate at the Rue Scribe. I surmised the vicomte and I had a better chance gaining entry without your knowledge through that gate, so long as your attention was riveted on Miss Daae and Mr. Wooster here in the Opera House."

The figurative light bulb switched on above my head. "Ah! So, _that's _why you never entered the Opera House with me!"

Jeeves inclined his noodle. "Astute summation, sir."

"Thank you, Jeeves. Go on, I'm fascinated."

"Thank you, sir. However, I must admit that on that first day, Monsieur Vicomte and I had not the clearest outline in mind of what we planned to accomplish, merely the vague notion of exploring the Phantom's domain. Thus we were most fortunate in obtaining the assistance of the daroga."

"I _knew _the daroga was behind this somehow!" Erik cried.

Once again feeling left out of the party, I voiced my frustration. "There's that blasted word again! Who _is _this daroga, Jeeves?"

"You remember, sir, the Persian gentleman who addressed me outside the Opera House some weeks back? He is the daroga, or Persian chief of police, as the moniker translates into English. He overheard our conversation with Mademoiselle Daae that first day in her dressing room, and hastened to offer his services."

I frowned. "Wonderful linguistic lesson, Jeeves. But why should a Persian cozzer concern himself with the Phantom's doings here in merry old Paris? Shortage of crime out in the Orient?" If so, I was prepared to abandon ship and take up permanent residence there, after all the fuss I'd been forced to endure both in England and in France.

"Hardly that, sir. No, Monsieur Daroga is familiar with the Phantom. Monsieur L'Fantome was, shall I say, an _entertainer_ of sorts for a period of time in the daroga's native land."

The Phantom here muttered something not altogether suitable for light-hearted readers, probably reminiscing about that apparently less than rose-colored time.

If Jeeves heard his grumbling he gave no indication, and continued his narrative. "The daroga not only led us to the Phantom's lair, but also taught me the tricks of the lasso, sir. His teachings, combined with my own research, led me, if I may risk my modesty in saying so, in becoming rather adept at wielding said lasso."

"I'll give you that, Jeeves, surely," I assented, as Erik snarled more oaths under his breath. "I'm quite snug up here, you know. Can't move an inch. Expertly done, Jeeves."

"Thank you, sir."

"But you still haven't told me _why, _Jeeves."

"_Yes," _Erik hissed, form a-quivering. "You dastardly cur! I had no quarrel with you! What diabolical scheme have you concocted?"

"Hardly diabolical, sir," Jeeves said, straightening with a subtle look of injured pride. "My motivation was merely to assist Mr. de Chagny, Miss Daae, Mr. Wooster, and—once she elicited my assistance—Miss Giry."

My mouth dropped open. I'd have cried out my own 'betrayal!' at this revelation, if not for fear of parroting Erik. "Meg came to you, Jeeves?"

"In a way, sir. We communicated via correspondence."

"And you never told me?"

"No, sir."

"Rum!"

"So it may seem, sir. Although I fully understand that your part in the young mademoiselle's heartbreak was purely unintentional, Mr. Wooster, her story did move me to help her. She had heard that I have occasionally assisted your friends, from stories told her by Baron de Castelot-Barbezac. I assured her that with her help, I could undoubtedly likewise come to a satisfactory conclusion for all your friends here at the Opera House, and I believe I have, sir."

"By tying us up?" Erik asked sarcastically. "Beautiful plan, utterly beautiful." He scoffed, as one does.

"This was only part of the plan, sir. The daroga has helped me bring the rest of Miss Giry's affair to a pleasing end. Given his ties to the government in Persia, Monsieur Daroga is at this moment presenting to Madame Giry papers testifying that the baron is descended from Persian emperors, sir."

It wasn't only the rope making me dizzy now. "Henri? Related to an emperor! Really?"

Jeeves puckered his mouth discretely. "It is not for me to say, sir, how authentic those papers precisely are. But papers with official seals and professional jargon, along with the baron's exotic appearance, should be enough to impress Madame Giry."

I shook my head. "Jeeves, you are a wonder. You are a genius, a scholar, a"—

"Dithering madman!" Erik finished on another train of thought entirely. "If you already had a solution, why did you tie us up and allow Miss Giry to taunt us? It makes no bloody sense, man!"

"Miss Giry does not harbor any permanent resentment toward either of you gentlemen, but she did ask she be given the chance to 'lord over' you for but a few minutes. 'I'd like them to feel small like dung beetles' was the rather colorful turn of phrase the young lady used. However, Miss Giry's lust for vengeance was not the entire reason I ensnared you two gentlemen. The daroga and I decided it would provide the necessary time needed for Mr. de Chagny and Miss Daae's elopement."

Noisome as a thunderclap, Erik cried out, "WHAT?"

Jeeves turned grave eyes to the horrified Phantom. "Yes, sir. When I informed Miss Daae Monsieur de Chagny was by my side the entire time, looking for your hideout often at risk of his own life, the realization reawakened her feelings for the viscount. They are currently on their way out of France, sir."

"Where?" Erik rasped.

"I cannot say, sir. The viscount made the arrangements. The daroga and I advised him not to reveal the whereabouts to anyone but Miss Daae. We discouraged him from telling even us."

The most harrowing moans escaped the swinging O.G. here, sounding a bit like Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright suffering a morning head after a long night out.

"How, how could she?" Erik sobbed piteously. "She didn't want to leave without singing for me one more time! I heard her tell the viscount that countless times…."

"Nor did she, sir," Jeeves said gently. "She mentioned that sentiment in her original letter to me. And that is why I…_borrowed_ your music, sir."

Taking time out of his despair, the Phantom's eyes flew open and he stared daggers into my steady valet. "_You! _You stole my music? How? _How?_"

Jeeves turned back to me. "Do you remember, Mr. Wooster, our first visit here at the Opera Populaire, and my preoccupation with what Monsieur Moncharmin said about the paper clips?"

I scanned my memory. "Oh, yes, there it is! You didn't explain what he was on about at the time. Just something about the Phantom's new method of pinching a few bob off the manager's desk or something."

"Yes, sir. To spare you from too much technical explanation, I essentially replaced a safety clip on a string with a light anchor tied to a rope. We then lowered the anchor from your bedroom ceiling, Monsieur Phantom, and were then able to hoist up your superlative manuscript."

"Fiends!"

Jeeves gestured toward the phonograph. "Our motivation was not to hurt you, sir, but to help you. You see, Miss Daae did not leave you without any memento." He removed from his jacket a small disk and placed it on the phonograph, then switched it on.

Christine's voice spoke from the contraption. The doll spoke in French, of course, but Jeeves later translated her words for me:

"My dear Angel of Music, please do not be angry with me. I have been confused for a very long time now, but I feel that is going to change. I do love Raoul. I was drawn to you because your music reminded me of my poor dear father, and to Mr. Wooster because he reminded me of Raoul before my misery had affected him so. But Raoul, through his thoughtful bravery, has reminded me why I fell in love with him in the first place.

But oh, dear Angel, I do not mean to hurt you by speaking this way. You inspired my voice, and had faith in me when no one else did. I love you, dear Erik, like the father I lost. As long as you have this recording, I will never be far from you, sweet friend. Adieu."

And then the chippie let out what sounded like a long wail, and I thought she was sobbing, until very slowly a tune emerged.

"My _Don Juan," _Erik gasped. "She is singing my _Don Juan!" _He listened vacantly like a man enchanted.

Clearly he was moved, so I thought it best that the blighter listen to the thing without my commentary. If you ask me, the music was certainly full of vim and vigor, not to mention Christine had never sounded more corking, but…well…the tune itself could have been a little cheerier, what? Sounded a bit like a dirge to me, with admittedly more operatic flair around the edges.

After about a few minutes, Erik said through a cloud of tears, "Please…please…turn it off. I can't listen anymore. My heart…my heart is too full at the moment."

Jeeves obliged by switching off the record. Erik took a few shuddering breaths, then said wearily, "Well? What now? I've lost Christine; really, you might as well shoot me where I swing. I've no life now, no purpose…."

"Oh, come!" I interjected. "Let's not be so down in the d! After all, what about that music, hey? It's…not what _I'm _used to, of course, but I bally well bet some music publisher or another would be hot to get his mitts on it. You should send it in!"

"HA! You overestimate the intelligence of publishers these days, Wooster. If it's not sentimental claptrap, no one's interested."

"If you don't mind my saying so, sir," Jeeves addressed Erik, "I believe you are _under_estimating Paris's music publishers. In fact, Monsieur de Chagny was able to secure you a contract at Choudens's Publishing House, where Monsieur Antoine was most enthusiastic about the sample of _Don Juan Triumphant _the viscount presented him with."

The Phantom's red eyes widened. "What?" He whispered. "Me…a…a…a contract?" He shook his head violently, as if trying to wake from a dream. "No, impossible. I'll bet that runt de Chagny never told Choudens that _Don Juan's _composer is a deformed Opera Ghost."

"He did indeed, sir, presenting your case with the utmost sensitivity, outlining the hardships you've endured. Monsieur Antoine was quite moved, and believes a campaign similar to the one for Mr. John Merrick—coarsely referred to as 'The Elephant Man' while part of the London sideshow, due to what some doctors believe might have been the condition Neurofibromatosis type I—would increase public sympathy for you and serve as positive publicity for _Don Juan Triumphant_."

"Bah!" Erik dismissed. "It will be like playing in the sideshow all over again."

"Indeed no, sir. Monsieur Antoine is so eager to add your music to his House's repertoire that he has granted you full creative and managerial control, over both your work and your life—all the necessary papers have been arranged, sir, and all that is required is your signature."

So saying, Jeeves removed from his breast pocket a pen and a contract.

Erik stewed.

I tried to buck him up. "Come on, then! What've you got to lose? Believe you me, Jeeves here is a good-hearted mate, and wouldn't lead you astray."

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all, Jeeves. How about it, Erik?"

Erik harrumphed uneasily. "But of course, I've no philanthropic sponsor like Merrick's doctor."

"You do have one, sir, in Monsieur de Chagny."

More widened red eyes. _"Him again?"_

"He is prepared to finance your publicity, Monsieur. He is calling it a wedding gift to Miss Daae, who truly does treasure you as a paternal mentor. As you see, the vicomte, though at times a rather…_excitable_ and _impetuous_ youth, has a good heart, as Miss Daae and Mr. Wooster have always assured me."

"It's true," I nodded. "Back in school, one minute Raoul would be close to tears about a paper cut, and then the next, he'd be giving away half his allowance to some little pageboy or another. Good egg under all the histrionics, if histrionics is the word I want."

"Appropriate word choice, sir." He held the pen back up to Erik. "Monsieur L'Fantome, the decision is entirely up to you."

Erik contemplated us- contemplated Jeeves's hovering hand holding pen to paper, and my well-meaning grin.

After another pregnant pause, Erik said slowly, "I…I suppose, after all, I have nothing left to lose…."

"There, that's the spirit! Er, sort of. How about it, Jeeves? Cut us down so our good ol' Angel of Blossoming Musical Careers can sign at the X, eh?"

"Of course, sir. You may come in now, Monsieur Daroga!" He called.

The door flew open and the very Persian chappie Jeeves had alluded to stood with a pistol aimed at Erik.

"Just a precaution, Erik," he told his swinging foe, voice rough and eyes stern. "You are, if nothing else, quite unpredictable."

"Yes, yes," Erik grumbled. "Now cut me down, will you?"


	8. Epilogue: Jeeves Ties Up Loose Ends

I entered the outer-room of my cabin whistling one of the lighter melodies from _Faust, _tightening my tie in preparation for dinner at the captain's table. So far, the journey home was a fair one, with the exception of a light storm the first night that very near gave me another case of the whim-whams. Despite how sunny everything had turned out in Paris, the jumpiness I caught there—similar to a bad case of smallpox- still reared it's colorful head every once in a while.

I picked up a newspaper from the pile of correspondence Jeeves left for me on the table (forwarded from London—the correspondence, that is, not the table). I took a look at the leading article in the Entertainment section.

"Well, well, well," I said.

"Sir?" Jeeves asked, from where he was methodically unpacking a suitcase.

"This paper's full to the brim with stuff on Erik and that Prince John opera of his."

"Indeed, sir? That is most gratifying."

"I'll say it is, Jeeves. Raoul's outdone himself on this publicity biz." I skimmed the paragraphs. "Apparently production is buzzing along quite smoothly at the Paris Opera House, where Erik's in charge of directing, producing, and casting."

"Quite a boon for Monsieur Erik, sir."

"Just about the ripest boon he could have, I should say." I gasped as my eye caught a sub-article's headline. "Good lord! Well, I never!"

"Something wrong, sir?"

"I was mistaken, Jeeves! _This _is the ripest boon he could have gotten! Listen: 'Madame Christine de Chagny, more popularly known to Parisians by her maiden name of Daae, has been secured for _Don Juan Triumphant's _leading female role!" Mouth hanging open, I stared dumbstruck at Jeeves. "How do you like _that, _Jeeves?"

"I cannot say I am overly surprised, sir. As has been stated on previous occasions, Madame de Chagny cares a great deal for Monsieur Erik, and is eager to help him readjust to society. Now that she is married and that deed is done, so to speak, I doubt she has much to fear from Monsieur Erik."

"Yes…well. Won't it be rather hard for poor old Erik, seeing the love of his life and whatnot traipsing around as Madame de Chagny instead of Madame Opera Ghost?"

Jeeves considered. "Perhaps at first, sir. However, I doubt Monsieur Erik will lack attention from female quarters for long."

I cocked my head, a bit perplexed. "How's that again?"

Jeeves pointed to yet another sub-article, entitled "Outbreak of 'Phemale Phanatics' at Paris Opera." From what I could glean, whole herds of chippies had taken to throwing themselves—figuratively and literally, apparently—at Erik's doorstep after hearing his life story and his music. I clucked my tongue. "Astonishing creatures, women, Jeeves. Give them a sympathetic story and a brooding figure, and no matter whether that figure has a face like Frankenstein's Monster or even Oofy Prosser, they're all for the blighter."

"I must heartily agree with your assessment, sir."

"No matter that he's probably wanted for murder. After all, that just spices things up a bit for the tender-hearted prunes, what?"

"Undoubtedly, sir."

"Hm. Oh, speaking of which, how's he going to get out of all the legally and morally questionable things he did while Phantoming around the O.H? You know, stealing money from the managers, scaring Carlotta off, dropping chandeliers, killing stagehands, that sort of thing?"

"I should not worry overmuch on that account, sir. Many of those activities are difficult to prove as anything but accidents. Meanwhile, considering the publicity the Phantom is now bringing their establishment, the Opera House's management is declining to press charges or investigate."

"Rosy!"

"Indeed, sir."

I picked up a lavender colored envelope from the pile. "Ah!" I said, looking it over. "It's from Meg and Henri. I'll bet I know what this is." My suspicions were confirmed once I opened it. Inside was the marriage announcement for Little Meg and Tall Henri. Also enclosed was a wedding portrait of both parties looking radiant and rightfully smug as they linked arms, dressed in their wedding duds. Beside them was Madame Giry, looking smuggest of all, about fit to burst with hip-hip-hoorah as she stood next to her allegedly royal son-in-law.

I handed the pic of the grinning, scheming trio over to Jeeves. "Here's some more evidence of your handiwork, Jeeves. The little ballet rat is now a little baroness. She'll never be an empress, but I guess it's too late now for Madame Giry to voice her objections, eh?"

"Madame Giry is long-accustomed to a life of limited luxury, sir. I am sure once she comprehends the security and wealth now surrounding her daughter, she'll soon either forget or dismiss from her thoughts Monsieur Erik's promise of an emperor for her daughter's husband."

"Here's hoping, Jeeves. However, the Giry women are a curious bunch, you must remember. Which is why I continue to be quite grateful to you, Jeeves, for uniting Little Giry—er, Little Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac—to her man. Otherwise, I'm quite sure the sprite would have carried out her threat, and wrote Madeline to say"—I blanched. "Oh, Great Scott! I forgot!"

"Forgotten what, sir? A hat?"

"No, no, no! I—oh, Jeeves. We shall have to jump ship."

"…Perhaps a pair of spats, sir?"

"_Madeline, _Jeeves! _Madeline!" _I took to pacing, and I'm sure the stage description in the script for an opera would have had me wringing my hands and hitting a high C. I don't _think _I went that far, but my mind was a bit scattered, so who knows what I did. "The whole bally reason we left England in the first place, Jeeves, aside from helping Raoul, was to escape the matrimonial clutches of one Madeline Bassett! And now here we are sailing right back into her loving, terrifying arms! Jeeves! What's to become of me?" I turned appealing eyes to my valet.

Having glanced down at my correspondence, Jeeves gingerly picked up a letter. "Perhaps Miss Bassett herself will provide some indication of our next appropriate action, sir."

I blanched anew. In the cove's hand was a letter from the very girl, her loopy handwriting burning my eyes like a branding iron.

Quivering from stem to stern, I opened the letter, grimacing as I unfolded the note.

"_Bertie,_

_Dear Bertie! My poor, sweet, befuddled, infatuated little lamb, Bertie! O! how my heart trembles with dread as I write this, like a tender leaf weighted down by morning dew! Again, my eternal admirer, I must break your steadfast heart! Be strong, Bertie, moth to my unattainable star: I must end our engagement._

_O! Do not be so distraught as to turn away from this letter yet, don't! For I must explain myself. You see, but yesterday some anonymous stranger—a divine Cupid, I think, an angel of love sent down by my good fairy, perhaps—sent me a newspaper article circled in red (love's own color!). The article was a character profile of that infamous Opera Ghost. The ghost professed he only acted out in violence and hatred in the past because there was no gentling influence in his life, no bright sun to cast away the gloom of his forever night! The poor man bemoaned that he was misunderstood, and all that he needed…O, listen, Bertie!...all he needed….was love._

_O, how I wept when I read his sorry tale! Poor miserable creature! Then it made me reflect: was I perhaps too rash with Roderick? When he made his fearful pronouncement on my flowerbed, was he maybe just reaching out for solace and charity? _

_Of course this was so. I must now atone for turning away from him in his time of need. I shall do this by making him the gentlest, most understanding wife in the world! I shall be Beauty to his Beast, Christine to his Erik!_

_This is my calling, dear Bertie. We shall always be the closest of friends, you and I, so pray do not turn your back on life and all its riches, no matter how much they may lose their luster to you now. Believe me that my eyes sting with tears to know that whenever the wind rustles the leaves, whenever the sunset bursts on the horizon, whenever a lark calls to its mate, I know you will hear and think of but one name...Madeline._

_Adieu, my poor suitor. Adieu._

_Madeline Bassett_

I felt like ordering champagne. I felt like dancing a two-step. I felt like climbing to the top of the crow's nest (if these modern steamers have any) and sing my own triumphant ballad. The air suddenly smelled sweeter, and if a breeze did rustle any leaves at that point, the only word I would have heard was SAVED! Well, that or YIPPIE-KI-YAY!

"Jeeves!" I said, a smile widening my map. "It's off!"

"The engagement, sir?"

"Yes, by Jove! The ruddy engagement! It's off! Kaput! History! The most beautiful words in history, I'd say!"

"I am pleased events have transpired in a way to please you, sir."

I halted in my celebratory whoo-hooing and looked him over carefully. "Jeeves," I said carefully.

"Sir?" He asked innocently.

"Now, look. We can all agree that when they were passing out brains, I was left a little short-changed, what?"

"…It is not for me to say, sir."

"No, no. It's quite all right, Jeeves. Strictly speaking, I have about half the usual amount allotted to chappies, but I like to think I make up for it with charm and good humor. Still: the fact remains that at times I'm close to an imbecile. However!" I held upright a judicious finger. "There are times when even _I_ can catch on. I know you, Jeeves. And I can tell when you've been about something. Listen to this part of Miss Bassett's tale: '_yesterday some anonymous stranger—a divine Cupid, I think, an angel of love sent down by my good fairy, perhaps—sent me a newspaper article circled in red (love's own color!).' _Ignoring, if it is humanly possible, the distinctly purple shade of Miss Bassett's prose here, I think I have a bright idea who this Cupid is. Unless I'm wrong, he is a valet whose head bulges in the back and whose great intellect may or may not be attributed to a healthy intake of fish in his diet." I stared at the blighter square in the oculi. "Well, Jeeves? How about it?"

Jeeves's face only took on that dreamy, serene look of his. "I merely thought the young lady might find the article of some interest, sir. I trust it was not too large a liberty?"

I shook my head gratefully. "No, Jeeves. It was just the right size of a liberty. That kind of liberty I can readily subscribe to any day." I reached into my pocket and placed a great deal of money into the man's hand.

"There, Jeeves. Take it, and with it half my fortune, if you so desire."

"Thank you, sir. Very generous of you, but I should not be so bold as to overtake your inheritance."

"It's the least I can do, Jeeves. I just wish there was something else I could offer."

He coughed. "Well, sir…there is in fact…_something _more you could do for me, if that is your wish."

"Carry on, Jeeves! Name it and it is yours."

I should have known I was in for it once he raised his eyebrows and coughed again. "While packing your belongings, sir, I could not help but notice you have in your possession a magazine featuring pictures of popular Parisian moustaches, similar to Monsieur de Chagny's."

I squirmed, guessing where this was heading. "Oh, you did, did you? Fancy that."

"Am I correct in surmising, sir, that you yourself plan to grow such a facial accessory?"

"Oh, well, you know. I was thinking about it, what."

"Don't, sir."

"Oh, come, Jeeves!"

"Remember New York, sir."

"Oh, but this time will be different! This one will be just like Raoul's!"

"Indeed, sir."

"It looks right sporting on him!"

"That is a matter of personal opinion, sir."

I sighed wearily and eyed him gravely. His gaze met mine evenly.

I thought of taking a stand. Thought of saying, "Look here, fellow, this won't do." Firm resolve, and all that sort of thing, you know.

Then I looked down at Madeline's letter.

Then I thought about Jeeves reuniting Christine and Raoul. Then I thought about him fixing things for Meg and Henri. Then I remembered him sorting out Erik's numerous problems.

Which, incidentally, saved my neck.

Yes, I decided. Painful as it was to give up my hirsute dreams, this small sacrifice was worth it.

"Very well, Jeeves. No caterpillar atop this lip, if the idea displeases you so."

"I am much obliged, sir. I shall fetch you your razor now, if you do not mind, sir. There are already some dangerous signs of stubble upon your person."

END


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